The Night of the King of Cannibals
by Gunney
Summary: Arte and Jim have been called to a town in southern Colorado to investigate the disappearance of 5 prospectors.
1. Chapter 1

August of 1874 in Colorado was hot. Desperately hot. In July of that year a record-breaking streak of 18 consecutive days at 90 degrees had baked the high mountain towns and the desert cities to a crisp. Denver had been sweltering and the town of Saguache, Colorado, 180 miles south of Denver, had been no exception.

The name meant either 'green place' or 'blue earth' depending on which Ute Indian you chose to listen to, but the town, according to Washington, was nothing more than a glorified mining operation, like all the others in the area. The sparsely populated county had been established only 8 years prior.

"Sag-watch, Colorado." Arte said with his teeth bared, holding the cable he had just translated at eye-level, arms length in front of him. Like he was giving a speech, Jim thought.

"It's pronounced Saw-watch, Arte."

"_Saw-_watch? How could you possibly know?"

Jim only shrugged and went back to oiling the crank lever of his rifle. Their previous adventure had meant that the weapons aboard The Wanderer were neglected for longer than usual.

"Saw-watch..." Arte muttered to himself, then set the pad of paper down and went back to fixing his tie. He'd chosen the blue suit this time, for its lighter material, and his fingers slid over the light blue satin ascot tie as he fixed the neck band in place. "Saw-watch, hey, Jim. D'ya ever think about, I mean really stop to consider, names?"

"Names?"

"Of cities and countries. Even people."

Jim could feel the one sided conversation that was coming, and while his hands stayed busy with the rifle in pieces before him, his mind started to wander.

"Take Washington, for example. D.C. It's named after General George Washington of course, but he could have easily been a Sam Gargoyle, or a Walter Barthing. Then our nation's capital would have been Gargoyle, District of Columbia."

Arte turned to inspect his work in the small mirror that hung on the wall behind him, and caught Jim's reflection over his shoulder, and the stare that Jim was giving him. A mix of concern and maybe a little fear.

"I know it sounds peculiar but just one minute change in history, one tiny alteration and you could be Artemus Gordon. I could be James West. It's fascinating to consider."

Arte slipped on his jacket, tugging at the lapels and shrugging his shoulders until the custom-made article rested just right.

Snapping the trigger mechanism back into the stock, Jim operated the lever once, making sure it moved smoothly before he placed the tiny screws in their holes and twisted them home. "No offense, Arte, but where are you going with this?"

Arte stuck out his lower lip and shrugged, throwing his hands in the air and then patting them against his vest as he took a breath. "Nowhere. Just making conversation. Didn't mean to bother you with my humble ponderings."

"Arte..." Jim smiled, fitting the final piece into the rifle before he operated the lever, gently released the hammer, then replaced the weapon in the saddle holster it normally occupied. He stood from the table he'd been working at and went to his partner, clapping him on the shoulder before moving past him. "That's what I'm here for."

Arte gave him a look as the engine slowed, the wheels squealing as the brakes were applied. Bending to look through the window, Gordon took in the single room station up ahead, sun bleached walls and dust covered windows dancing in the heat. He could just make out two men standing as deep into the shade as they could under the awning of the station. One man seemed glued to his pocket watch, the other stood with his arms crossed in front of his chest. Both men wore only shirts and vest over their slacks, and straw hats.

"Looks like our welcoming party is ready for us."

"The whole nine yards, eh Arte?" Jim asked pulling on his own vest and jacket.

"Well..."Arte muttered to the window. "In a town with a population of under 100, these two may well be an extravagance."

As the train pulled to a final halt, steam billowing from the brake lines, Arte considered his gun belt where it lay on the table, then decided against it. They were there only for supplies, before heading to a rendezvous with a Sergeant from Los Pinos Indian Agency, and possibly to help in the search of missing persons; not to shoot it out with the natives. Considering the temperature outside it was wise to avoid carrying around unneeded weight.

Grabbing their hats, the two secret servicemen left their private car, stepping out into the hard, dry heat. The two men under the awning snapped their heads toward the end of the train as Jim's boot crunched into the rocky soil. The man in the lead, bearing a tin star on his vest, met Jim's eyes first, then Arte's, then continued to look behind Gordon as if expecting another man to appear.

Once Gordon and West had cleared the train, and it became apparent that no one else was going to exit, the second man under the awning craned his neck searching the platforms of the other car and even the engine.

Jim was the first to shake the Sheriff's hand.

"Sheriff William Bowdeen." The man introduced himself, then nodded to his companion. "That's Carlos Sanderson of the Saguache Sentinel."

"Well where is he?" Twenty-three year old Sanderson demanded, sharp accusing blue eyes boring first into Arte, then Jim.

"Where is who?" Arte asked, shaking the Sheriff's hand without looking at him.

"Eh...Carlos is askin' about the prisoner, fellas." Bowdeen explained. "He's awful anxious to get a look at him, and he's been spoutin' about freedom of the press and all that...I figured you all wouldn't mind."

"Prisoner?" Jim asked, meeting Arte's equally confused gaze, before they both looked back to the Sheriff.

Bill Bowdeen had to be in his sixties. A thin, wiry older man with the dark, weathered skin of a former prospector and the laid back ease of a cowhand, he put his hands on bony hips and nodded. "Well yep, we was told you fellas would be comin' up with a special prisoner for our jail out here. Jest had it built."

"If this is some sort of ruse, to keep the truth from the American people about this sinister and grisly crime, you'll not only have me to answer to, but the entire constituency of this great territory." Sanderson began.

Arte gave a thin, patronizing smile to the young man, patting the air in front of him as if to say, 'Good boy, down.'

"My name is Artemus Gordon, and this is my partner James West. We're Secret Service agents, requested by your territorial governor to assist in an official capacity in some sort of...man hunt or something."

"You mean he's escaped?" Sanderson exploded, seeming almost delighted at the prospect, despite the outrage in his voice.

"Now Carlos, I've told ya about that too many times to count. You go puttin' words in other people's mouths and then printin' 'em in that rag o' yours you'll get run outta Saguache the same as you got run outta every other town."

As Sanderson paced away, angrily vouching for the rights of the people against tyranny and the general debauchery of the federal government, the laid back sheriff followed a few steps behind, trying to calm the younger man.

Arte and Jim watched the show with baffled expressions before Arte asked, "You get the feeling we're a day late and a dollar short?"

"Actually...I think we're early.." Jim said, looking in the other direction.

When Arte asked, "Huh?" Jim pointed past the end of the train, down along the track where a column of blue coated horsemen approached leading several wagons. Almost twenty men rode in a long line, some carrying guide-ons designating their regiment.

"Those are General Charles Adam's men." Arte declared. Jim nodded in agreement and both watched as the horsemen approached in formation, turning according to the commands given by the Sergeant in Charge and finally forming a semi-circle around the two wagons, twenty feet from the train station.

Their approach hadn't gone unnoticed by Sanderson and Bowdeen, and all four men stepped off the platform together as the Sergeant dismounted, coming to full attention in front of Jim West and Artemus Gordon. The young brown-haired non-commissioned officer threw a salute, which Jim returned, then smiled pumping first West's hand, then Gordon's.

"Mr. West, Mr. Gordon. Good to see you sirs. Sorry that you weren't informed about our charge before hand but the decision to move him was only made a day ago, and our telegraph lines have been down for sometime."

"That's...quite alright, Sergeant." Arte offered, looking askance at the wagons. "Who exactly are we talking about here?"

"Alfred Packer."

Again Arte and Jim turned to each other, neither one of them recognizing the name. "Packer?" Jim asked.

The Sergeant nodded. "The Maneater of Colorado, sir."

"_Man_eater?" Arte asked, catching sight of Sanderson's disapproving glare out of the corner of his eye a second later.

"Yes sir, accused of murdering and eating 5 men, sir."

"What!?" Arte demanded, getting that same sick feeling. That undeniable understanding that they were now in it, up to their ears, with no way out.

"He's confessed, sir, and everything."

Arte swallowed and Jim stood beside him, arms crossed, leaning forward slightly with his mouth hanging open and nothing to say.

"Well," Bowdeen finally announced, stepping forward to slap a hand against Arte's back, before he slid in front of the Secret Service Agents and offered a handshake to the Sergeant. "Looks like we won't be needin' you gents for that manhunt after all."

"Uh well.." The Sergent began. "It's not so much a manhunt...as it is a body hunt. We haven't found them yet, Mr. Packer's victims, that is."

"Ah...of course." Sanderson said with accusatory satisfaction, before he loudly clapped his hands together and stormed away from the train and up the hill towards what looked like the main thoroughfare of town.

The loud explosion of air seemed to snap Jim and Arte out of their silence. Artemus stumbled for a minute over a dozen questions before he clarified, "Body hunt?"

"Yes sir."

"And whose body, may I ask, will we be looking for?"

"Well, sirs, that keeps changing. But we've got a fairly good idea."

"Ah..." Arte said, turning a meaningful glare on his partner.

Jim met his gaze and smiled politely, before looking back to the cavalryman. "That's very reassuring, Sergeant. Carry on."

The young man snapped another salute then returned to his unit, shouting the commands that would take them up the main street and to the newly built jail at its crest.

"Cannibals, Jim. We've gone from pirates to cannibals." Arte said through his teeth.

Jim turned and smiled, tapping the back of his hand against Arte's stomach. "At least there aren't any boats."

"Small mercies..." Arte said before they turned together toward the sheriff of the tiny town.

"Are you sure your jail is equipped to handle this prisoner?" Arte asked, gesturing to the phalanx of calvary men that had apparently been required to transport one prisoner.

The sheriff watched the parade as it slowly climbed the hill, nodding. "I got about ten deputies."

"Ten!? Ten deputies for this tiny town?" Arte asked. The town of Saguache could fit in a thimble or a on a postage stamp.

The sheriff, who had been digging in his pocket for a large chaw of tobacco, had pulled it out and had a knife poised at a corner, working a chunk loose. Before he popped it into his mouth he said, "You gentlemen should follow me."

Working his jaw against the stiff tobacco the lanky man walked toward the varnish car at the end of the train, then around the back of it, waiting for Jim and Arte to follow, before he swept his hand toward the long valley spreading before them.

Never before had Jim or Arte seen more brand new buildings, tents, or people crammed into one valley. The land below them was teeming with the varied hodgepodge of activity that was characteristic of every boomtown in America.

"Guess you gov'ment boys ain't got our new census papers yet." Bowdeen said, before he jerked his head back in the direction of the train. "Com'on. I'll show ya the new jail."


	2. Chapter 2

"Now this here is old Saguache." Sheriff Bill Bowdeen cut through the hot August air, four feet ahead of Jim and Arte as they crossed the threshold made by the rail lines, and stared up at the nine basic, unimaginatively but solidly constructed, gray block structures. "We call it Mears' Town these days after Old Otto Mears."

The grist mill and wheat thresher sat near a dammed stream that ran out of the mountains and down through what had become greater Saguache, in the crowded valley below. It was the only structure that could be considered an elaborate display of Otto Mears' architectural talent. While the stream wasn't powerful enough to operate the mill, it was used in part to operate the wheat thresher, and provided water to the other buildings. Near it was the closed up home of Old Man Mears himself; a single story, unpainted building with two simple windows in the front, and what looked like the smoke stack off an old wood-burning switcher protruding from the tin roof.

"Though, he's been outta town these past three weeks, on business ya see." Bowdeen informed them then spit tobacco in the dirt three feet ahead of him sending up a small puff of dust.

On the other side of the street, built in a straight line that was neither flush with the mountain side nor in line with the streets of the burgeoning town below, were the tavern and general store. Both buildings were precisely the same size and dimensions, and neither one appeared to be occupied.

"Most of the business has moved down the hill as you can see. All of my boys stay in the rooms atop the tavern, take our meals in the main room. The Saguache Sentinel, that would be Mr. Sanderson's newspaper and not the Chronicle, has the back room of that general store there." Again Bowdeen spat, this time hitting a small, flat rock about four feet away.

The only other structures, other than the conspicuously large outhouse, were the jail and two small shelters marking well-traveled passes that led into the mountains beyond Mears' Town. All nine buildings bore the name of Old Man Mears in some way or other leaving little doubt as to their owner, or the man making a profit off of everything that went on in the valley.

"Are those toll roads?" Arte asked, gesturing toward the two gaps in the mountains guarded by rough cut fences and two armed men at each gate.

Bowdeen nodded, turning to survey the men under the awnings and the trails beyond them as if he had put them there himself. "Straight up into the mountains, fastest way to and from the mines. Cost ya one dollar to git on, one dollar to git off."

"Steep." Jim commented.

Bowdeen dead-panned, "Yep. The price too."

Arte smirked to himself and they continued walking, leaving the dusty street presently for the equally dusty boardwalk. The newest building in that part of town was clearly the jail, and looked as if it had been cut directly out of the mountain.

"There's a natural cave back that-a-way that Old Man Mears used for shelter when he first come upon this strike. Since then it weren't much more'n a hole in the mountain til we started to get more rabble-rousers than we could handle. Some...architect fella come through, took one look at that hole and declared he could build the most escape proof jail in the world out of it. We even had three world-renowned escape experts come in and try."

"I take it they failed..." Arte ventured as they passed under the awning for the general store, then on to the empty saloon.

The cavalry Sergeant's men had built a rope corral behind the two buildings using the wagons as end posts, so that they could shade the horses. The Sergeant himself, whose name Arte couldn't remember, stood with a corporal and the prisoner, who was chained and wore a burlap sack over his head, at the door of the jailhouse.

"Two of them fellas couldn't escape." Bowdeen continued. "The other one...we ain't seen since."

The jail, currently shrouded in the shadow cast by the mountain was made almost entirely of rock. The giant blocks had probably been cut from the sides of the toll roads and hauled in by mule train. Each one was fitted to its neighbor almost seamlessly and where the walls ended and the mountain side began was lost to the brilliant design of the architect.

"Who was it you said designed this?" Arte asked.

"Feller's got his name on a plaque inside." Bowdeen answered. "Said he come from the east lookin' for work, gone clean plumb to San Francisco before he heard there was a fire in Chicago." The sheriff escorted them into the blessedly cool building, allowing the Sergeant, his prisoner, and the corporal to go first.

The front room was large but separated by odd, three-foot walls marking off a reception area with a desk, a waiting area filled with chairs, the Sheriff's office on the left and several open desks meant for deputies on the right. Beyond that was a thick wood door with bars that led to the cell area. "Well he was on his way back East, travelin' with a mule skinner as he ain't had money for a train ticket, when he seen that hole in the wall and was struck by some sorta bug. Jest hadta build that jail. Old man Mear's shore liked his ideas and the town put together the money." Bowdeen paused, then said, "Right there it is..."

The Sheriff looked behind where Jim and Arte stood just inside the door, and pointed a dark, tobacco stained finger. Above the door was a bronze plaque bearing an upturned horse shoe, the name Otto Mears in great letters, followed by a dedication of the building. Down at the bottom, under the date of dedication was the name of the architect in tiny, but still legible print.

"Louis Sullivan." Arte read.

"Real _young _feller. Smart as a whip though."

In all that time Jim had been studying the prisoner. With his face covered and his hands chained behind his back Jim couldn't pin point Alfred Packer's age, or his race. He was a thin man, dressed in prison stripes that sagged over his body. There might have been some muscle underneath, but it was lean and wiry. Working man's muscle, not that of an athlete. The man was constantly moving, his wrists rubbing against the seat of his pants, or his shoulders shrugging, or his feet shuffling. Not nervous energy, because it was slow and deliberate. The sort of thing Jim might expect to see of someone testing his bonds, or slowly working loose of them.

West had just worked his way behind the prisoner when the chains fell loudly to the floor. Jim got a flash of bloodied wrists and ankles before the prisoner thrashed his fists out to his sides, one fist catching the Sergeant square on the jaw, the other hitting nothing but air a foot above the corporal who had bent to retrieve the fallen chains.

Alfred Packer yanked the bag from his head even as he was running straight forward, barreling into Arte. Gordon threw out his hands and latched onto the man's neck and shoulders, the two going down in a heap.

Two solid thumps of fists against flesh and Arte was suddenly groaning and red-faced, but steadfastly kept his hold on the prisoner.

Jim managed to get past the stunned Sergeant and Corporal, and thrust his hands under Packer's armpits as a third and fourth blow fell against Arte's abused middle.

"Let him up Arte, I got him!" Jim shouted, for a moment certain that his grip was sound.

A second later, as Jim hauled the prisoner upright, he felt teeth sinking into his left wrist, where he had curled it around the top of the prisoner's shoulder. It felt like Packer bit straight down to the bone. Jim let out a pained cry and freed his right hand, wrapping it around Packer's face, his fingers searching for eye sockets, or a nose, anything sensitive that might make the prisoner loosen his hold.

Sheriff Bowdeen stepped in then with his six-shooter drawn. He had quietly emptied the gun of its bullets during the first part of the scuffle and just as Jim's hold on the prisoner was collapsing the Sheriff calmly cold-cocked Packer above the right ear.

The man-eater sank unconscious to the floor and Jim jerked his injured arm free of the falling body. A perfect impression of Packer's top teeth now gave way to pearls of blood on Jim's wrist. Not only had the man bit down almost to bone with his unnaturally sharp teeth, but Jim's wrist was starting to swell where he had gnawed on the tendon.

Arte had managed to get to his knees, his belly on fire from the unexpectedly powerful blows Alfred Packer had been landing. The Corporal was helping the Sergeant back to his feet, inspecting the swelling on the young cavalryman's jaw.

Bowdeen moved around the wounded littering the floor and bent to retrieve the shackles. They were still closed and locked, but coated with slick blood. Sneering in disgust the Sheriff left them where they were and went to open the door leading to the cells.

"Walter. Get me some size two hand and ankle shackles. Albright, you might go after the doctor. Tell 'im we got a man's been bit." Two men acknowledged the orders from the hallway beyond the door. One of them, carrying a rifle, came through the doorway, passed Bowdeen, then headed outside and toward Saguache in the valley without more than a single glance at the carnage in the main room.

Jim moved to help Arte up off the floor, propping him on one of the three-foot partitions. Gordon, pale and sweating, looked like he was going to be sick for a moment before he caught sight of the blood on West's arm. The perfect dental impression in blood and skin pushed him over the edge and he stumbled to his feet and out into the dusty heat, collapsing to his knees and vomiting.

Jim went to the outer door so that he could keep an eye on his partner, and still watch the Sheriff and his deputy chain up the prisoner again then cart him back to his cell. The shackles he was placed in were a size or two smaller than the first set, and bit into the prisoner's abused skin just a little. Jim would admit to feeling some satisfaction at the sight.

With the prisoner locked in his cell and under guard by one of his men, Sheriff Bowdeen went into the outer office of his jail and checked on the Sergeant and his man. The young officer appeared to be recovering, and sat staring stunned at the prisoner-less shackles, as if expecting Alfred Packer to reappear, still chained, at any moment.

Bowdeen continued on, stepping out into the August heat where the two Secret Service agents had disappeared. The younger one, West, had helped his partner back to his feet and they stood upwind of where Gordon had been sick, leaning against the cool rock walls of the jail. Gordon had an arm bracing his stomach and Jim West's wrist had been temporarily wrapped in a kerchief.

With no one needing his immediate assistance Will Bowdeen kicked sand and dirt over the foul smelling spot on the ground, cleared the old chaw out of his mouth and started in on a new one.

He was putting the tobacco and knife back into his pocket when he heard the Sergeant and Corporal come through the door behind him. The Sergeant appeared to be fully recovered and moved with military purpose, spotting the Secret Servicemen and heading straight for them, just barely missing stepping in the puddle of vomit.

Neither Jim West nor Artemus Gordon appeared terribly impressed with the Sergeant's attempt at professional bluster, but they returned the salutes they were given and watched as the young man, his job finished, approached his men, ordered them to mount up, and led his column out of town.

A few minutes later a stocky woman in plain blue gingham stepped out the front door of the tavern carrying a large triangle and a metal dowel. She rang what was recognized as a dinner bell, in all parts of the west, for a solid minute before she ducked back inside, the echo of the sound trailing after her.

"Well...don't know if you fellas are interested in grub just now..." Bowdeen began, catching the baleful glare from Gordon. "But there's coffee and stew, and other fine vittles to be had for the next hour. You're welcome to it."

After imparting his invitation the Sheriff spat in the dust then ambled into the tavern.

Jim's wrist was aching. It felt like something evil was leeching into the open wounds and it was swelling still against the tight wrap of fabric. Still he preferred that to the sick as a dog look his partner was giving him.

"How can he think of food at a time like this?" Arte groused, his voice thickened and rough.

Jim looked to his wrist again, remembering the sickening feeling of Alfred Packer chewing on him...like he might have been enjoying it. West had to admit he didn't have much of an appetite at the moment either.

"How's that feel anyway?" Arte asked, nodding toward the wounded appendage.

"Do you remember that time I was attacked by wolves?" Jim asked, pressing his back against the cool of the jail wall.

"Yeah?"

Jim lifted his wrist and inspected the spots of blood starting to soak the top layer of the bandage.

"Now imagine they could talk, and walk on two legs. That they could tell you how much they enjoyed the taste of you."

Arte started to look green again.

"Arte, if Alfred Packer really did eat 5 people...I hope he killed them first."


	3. Chapter 3

The doctor arrived equipped with nurses. The nurses were related to each other, and sadly, to the doctor, but they didn't seem to mind the attention that both Arte and Jim paid. They especially didn't mind treating both patients in the comfort and style of the varnish car aboard The Wanderer.

Geneva Young was 24, with light brown hair and sparkling brown eyes. She stood no taller than 4'5", and with her trim waist and narrow shoulders, looked like a miniature of her older sister Hannah. Her senior, by only a year, Hannah Young was 5'4", equally as shapely, but with wider shoulders and twice the natural strength of Geneva. Hannah had blondish, brown hair that bleached itself in the summer, she explained. Her brown eyes seemed to bleach themselves as well, streaked around the iris with gold and dark, almost black around the edges.

Both were happily married to the doctor. They were Mormons, they explained. And they had left Utah at their husband's insistence ten years before, shortly after both sisters had married the much older man.

While Alchimedes Young, patriarch of 54 years, bent over James' wrist where it soaked in a solution of boiling hot salt water Hannah stood at his side, with tools in her hands that she kept ready and clean at all times, moving with practiced efficiency.

Artemus had readily allowed Geneva to help him remove his shirt and vest, soaking up the _tsk tsk_ noises and moans of sympathy he got when the ugly bruises on his stomach were revealed. Jim was chuckling when Arte's comfort level dropped a little as Geneva started to palpate the bruises with tiny, somewhat bony hands. Her actions were professional but clearly pained Arte more than he cared to admit.

Jim stopped smirking when his wrist had been dunked in the hot water solution, and it was Arte's turn to smirk, if only temporarily.

Alchimedes seemed entirely oblivious to, or else confidently without concern for, the mild flirting going on between his young wives and the Secret Servicemen he treated.

Arte's bruises were covered with a pain numbing rub of sage and witch hazel, and loosely wrapped. The wounds on James' arm required no stitches, but the swelling of the tendon would require as much rest as possible for the joint and it too was wrapped. He was given a sling that he was ordered absolutely to wear for the next week, at which time the doctor would pay a second visit.

Geneva and Hannah were invited to visit much sooner, for dinner perhaps, but both demurely declined. Whether Alchimedes thought he had also been invited or not, he seemed disenchanted by everything in general and left in the same gloomy, disappointed cloud that he had arrived in.

After they had departed Arte lightly pressed experimental fingertips against the bandages on his stomach as he stood looking at a recent map of the western United States. He could swear he was more sore now than he had been before. "How much do you actually know about the Mormon's, Jim?"

Similarly testing his bandages, Jim flexed his wrist, finding his range of motion irritatingly limited. "They have beautiful women..."

"That might justify the polygamy. I meant the religion, the way of life."

Jim shrugged, moving to the window to watch the Young wagon as it headed back down the hill and into greater Saguache.

"Out of Utah..." Arte muttered to himself, using his fingers to mark out the miles from Utah to Colorado, trying and failing to find the town the ladies had named as their birthplace. He was forced to give up his search when the telegraph key started to rattle in its hidden cage. Moving to what looked like a set of Shakespeare's plays on the corner of the writing desk, Arte swung open the doors and slid the key out on its track, answering the call with their customary sign, before he began to translate on a pad of paper.

"Have received word...A. Packer transported to...your location." Jim muttered, watching as Arte jotted the message down in shorthand a hair faster. "Imperative that...bodies...of victims...be located-p.h.?"

"Post haste." Arte muttered.

Jim nodded. "Son of J. B. Chaffee...believed among them. Will send D type-"

"Daguerreotype."

"via H-"

"Henrietta." They both said together, before they fell silent to listen to the final dying chatter of the key.

Tossing the pencil down by his pad Arte reached out to flip the switch from receive to send, tapped acknowledgement and their sign off, and with a flick of the wrist slid the telegraph key back into its home.

"J. B. Chaffee..." He said thoughtfully, carefully closing the 'doors' of the false books. "He's not out of Washington, I don't think."

"Must be local. Out of Denver?"

"Chaffee, Chaffee..." Arte muttered pronouncing the long 'a' at first, then with the short 'a'. Neither pronunciation sounded familiar.

"Arte."

"Hm?"

"You don't suppose..."

"Yeah?"

"William Bowdeen.."

"The sheriff.."

"You don't suppose he's..."

Arte waited while Jim stared at him, trying to put together where it was his partner was going with the question, and failing. Before he had the chance to insist that Jim explain, West dropped the idea.

"Forget it."

"Alright...in other news, where do we go from here?"

Both men unconsciously and simultaneously tried to cross their arms over their chests as they perched, Arte on the edge of the desk, Jim on the arm of one of the chairs. Equally as simultaneously both stopped the action, Arte wincing at the bruises he had upset, Jim at his wrist's protest to the motion. Robbed of an otherwise normally comfortable position both fidgeted for a second then stood.

"What do you say we do a little exploring in downtown Saguache?" Jim asked, reaching for his jacket.

"I'll go for that." Arte smirked, pulling on his own coat.

Together they left the train car, Arte smiling broadly as he thought of a first stop that they could make. Perhaps the home of a certain physician.

Before he could offer the suggestion he was stopped by a sight that aroused no little alarm, and even more questions. From where he stood on the bottom step of the platform he could count almost thirty men gathered in a loose semi-circle around the varnish car. All of them were miners in some form or other, all carrying packs or shoulder bags, pick axes or shovels, wearing narrow brim hats and thick leather gloves.

Arte glanced behind him to find Jim similarly stalled on the platform of the car.

"I've got 29." He said quietly.

"Twenty-five on the other side." Jim answered.

"Too many to call it a fair fight, perhaps we should give them a chance."

"I'm up for conversation." Jim replied with a shrug that Arte didn't see so much as hear.

Arte pasted a diplomatic smile on his face and loudly said, "Gentlemen." In as jovial a tone as possible. "How can we assist you this fine evening."

Some of the men in the back of the group shifted their feet, some spat at the ground. One youngster in the middle carried a smaller pickaxe with a wider blade on one end that he rotated endlessly in the crook of his palm.

"You'll forgive our curiosity but we aren't always greeted but such a large..." Jim ground to a halt, struggling for a word.

"August?" Arte offered, glancing briefly over his shoulder.

"August gathering of...locals."

More spitting, more squint-eyed stares.

"Well if there are no more motions I declare this meeting of the homeowner's association a smashing success..." Arte tried, cueing the dead crowd with some laughter of his own that died a sickly death in his throat. His stomach suddenly hurt worse than before and he swallowed.

"You got him on that train?"

Arte couldn't pin point the speaker, but he knew the voice had come from his side. He had the worst feeling of deja vu sweep over him.

"If you got him, we want 'im." The voice said, and suddenly fifty voices chimed in with him, shouting in angry agreement.

Arte took a careful step up closer to where Jim stood, moved his foot to the back of the stair step, then stepped up again.

"Do you suppose they're asking after our friend in the jail?" Arte muttered out of the corner of his mouth.

"Seems everybody in the valley thinks we brought Packer here on the train, not just the Sheriff." Jim answered.

"How much you wanna bet we have Sanderson to thank for that?" Arte waited for the quiet agreement from West before he cleared his throat.

"Citizens of Saguache," Arte began, quietly thankful that he had learned how to pronounce the word before meeting this bunch. The proper sounding of their town's name seemed to calm them a little. "We know why you're here." Arte's hand found its way to the small pocket in his vest as he took on the role. Politician, crowd pleasure, drummer, preacher. They all gathered in his head, automatically conforming his voice and physical movements to the 'lines' he was developing, lending authenticity to the character he presented, and thus to the words he proclaimed. The sign of a truly great actor, Arte thought, proud of himself.

"We know about the terrible, cursed blight that has befallen this fair and decent, hard-working town."

"Arte?"

"We understand how you feel. Cheated!" Arte paused, watching as some of the men started to look baffled, while still others nodded a little in agreement. "Pillaged. Rousted out of your sense of security." More men were nodding, the height of their picks and shovels lowering a little. "There's a vile creature out there..." Arte pointed to the mountains, alarming some of the younger men in the crowd such that they turned quickly to look in the same direction. "A terrible, hungry devil desperate for human flesh. Not content with the gifts of venison and beef, and the bounty of God's earth, but instead...he comes after you, or your wives, or your...no." Arte cut himself off, throwing up his free hand and dropping his chin, as if composing himself after a wave of emotion. "No the thought is too horrifying to speak. But we understand. We understand that you are here to protect your wives and sweethearts, your loved ones. And yourselves. We do understand gentlemen."

"Arte!" Jim whispered his partner's name harshly under the buzz of agreement coming from the crowd.

"And we have need of your services." This got their attention. "We need ten men."

"Artemus..."

"No, your right, Jim, absolutely right." Arte stage whispered then shouted, "Twenty! To help us in our quest for justice."

"Arte!" Jim spoke loud enough to be heard by most of the miners, smiled broadly at the alarmed look some of them gave him, and reached out for the back of Gordon's collar, pulling him in close, before he threw his arm around Artemus' neck. "Before we sane, experienced Secret Service agents send an angry mob after a man we've already captured, could we maybe discuss that brilliant little plan of yours?"

"Plan? What plan? I'm making it up as I go along." Arte adjusted his collar, flashing the crowd with another reassuring smile.

"That's what I was afraid of. What are we going to do with these twenty men who am I sure are about to volunteer?"

"We're looking for bodies aren't we, in a whole lot of mountain range that we know nothing about."

Jim thought about the pros and cons for a moment, weighing them. More man power meant the job might happen faster. Especially with the son of Chaffee, however it was pronounced and whoever he was, being named in a brief telegram sent from Washington, the priority of the job had increased. Chaffee had to be important or he wouldn't have been mentioned at all, so the faster they completed the job the better.

However murder, or something worse, was involved in the disappearances of the men they were trying to find, and the discovery of mutilated bodies, covered in human tooth marks could start-up a murderous mob that Artemus and Jim couldn't hope to control.

Of course the mob didn't currently know where Alfred Packer was or that he was even in custody. Further they probably didn't even know _who_ he was. Only what he had been accused of.

"It might work." Jim said finally, patting his partner on the back. "Good plan, Arte."

With a wink Arte turned back to his newest constituency and spread his hands over the railing of the platform, leaning in. "Twenty of you men, with strong backs, and a keen knowledge of these mountains, able to supply yourselves for hard days of searching, and hard nights in the elements; step forward, stand up for your God-given right to freedom and security in your own homes. Stand here..." He pointed to the rail road tie directly in front of the rear of the car. "And be counted."


	4. Chapter 4

By the time the evening had concluded Jim and Arte had signed up 40 men. Officially they were labeled as temporary deputies assigned to the secret service. Arte was careful to frequently clarify that the work was on a strictly volunteer basis.

Following crowds, like a moth does a flame, the vendors of various dry and wet goods got wind of the crew of men suddenly camped around the rail yard and it wasn't long before the brave, selfless volunteers were supplied with fresh liquor and wanton women. It was a wild one night party in the making and Jim and Arte watched it happen from the relative serenity of the rail car.

"I wonder how many of them will remember their 'duty' tomorrow morning." Arte sipped from a cup of tea, steaming into his face. If the days were hot in Saguache the nights were just as cool, and his stomach had protested against the usual evening brandy, even coffee. So he drank tea, and Jim was good enough to join him.

"All of them will, if I have anything to say about it." Jim said, leaning over an elevation map of the area defining almost a hundred miles of mountain and desert that covered over 600 feet in elevation.

"Ah, Captain West returns." Arte chuckled.

Outside one man's voice rose above the rest with an authoritative tone, bringing the ruckus to a grinding halt for a few minutes. As the noise died down Arte could recognize the voice of one of Bowdeen's deputies. He was surprised and pleased at the respect that even one of Bowdeen's underlings seemed to command. A few minutes after the deputy's voice died out the party resumed, but at a subdued level.

"Arte...if I wasn't already convinced that he was crazy, I would almost suggest we bring Packer along."

"_If_ he were sane, Jim, he could hardly be expected to lay out the evidence of his crime for us. His being _in_sane might give us a better shot."

"Maybe. It's something to consider...as a last resort."

A tiny bell sounded near the false fireplace and Arte set his cup and saucer down, moving to an eye level panel that slid down and revealed a pigeon hole in the wall. Literally. A snow-white homing pigeon sat inside cooing.

"Henrietta! You're looking fine this evening. New feathers?" Arte gathered the bird in his hands and detached the small parcel she carried before he took the bird to the cage in the supply room. Speaking to her gently he placed her inside, made sure she had seed and water, then set about gathering the supplies he would need.

"Is that the daguerreotype, Arte?"

"Eh...in a manner of speaking." Using a pair of metal pincers Arte carefully slid a razor-thin roll of tin out of the tiny tube he'd taken from Henrietta. The tin was already cracking in some places and the image on it would be fragile. The idea of sending photos in this way via carrier pigeon had been something in the works between himself and a team of photographers in Washington. The trick was finding a malleable material that either held an image, or a negative, but was still small enough, and light weight enough, to allow for transportation. Their latest idea, developing a tin type on a specially made metallic molding material, sadly, had failed. The image had either faded entirely, or never successfully made it onto the tin in the first place.

He'd have to send a depressing missive back to Washington, to Vogel's assistant in the States, as well as one directly to the inventor in Germany.

Holding the crumbling tin in one hand Arte left the supply room and showed the shining mess to his partner.

"Guess we're back to flying blind."

"Don't worry, Arte. You'll get it some day."

"Last year we discovered how to take a color photograph, and reduce the exposure time significantly. We can even make moving photographs. But we can't get them easily from one end of the nation to the other." Arte groused, tossing a "Thanks anyway, Henrietta." Over his shoulder before he went back to his even more depressing cup of tea.

"We could still use that photograph.." Jim said thoughtfully.

Arte paused and gave Jim a look of mild frustration. "Would you like me to trade Henrietta in for larger pigeon?"

"We don't need a pigeon, Arte. We have a train."

"Aaah, you want me to go up to Denver..."

Jim nodded smiling. "Why not go straight to the horses' mouth as it were. If Mr. Chaffee is out of Denver you can meet with him directly, if not..."

Arte put up a hand, waving away any further suggestions. "Don't you worry, Jim. I'll figure it out. You sure you'll be alright with that army of hooligans out there?"

"I'm sure Bowdeen can lend us a few of his men. What we can't find on our own, maybe the Cannibal of Colorado can help us with."

"I...would steer clear of that one til I get back, Jim. He had some frighteningly efficient moves for a crazy man."

"And if he's sane?"

"Even scarier."

* * *

Early the following morning Jim left The Wanderer wearing his riding clothes, with saddle bags full of supplies and his horse saddled and ready. Arte bid him good luck and farewell from the back of the varnish car, staying out in the clear morning air until Jim and the town of Saguache were completely out of sight. It would take the train almost 5 hours to cover the 180 miles to Denver, most of it in sharply increasing elevation and over steep mountain passages.

Arte spent most of the time writing a five-page letter to his friend Hermann Vogel, detailing the condition that the failed photograph had arrived in, the deterioration of the metal they had used in the time taken for transport, and his thoughts on future endeavors. It was a depressing handful of hours spent alone in frustration, only made worse by the occasional grumble of pain in his stomach reminding him that he was hungry. He didn't get around to making something to eat until they were on the outskirts of Denver, and a nagging worry for his partner alone in the San Juan mountains with 40 plus unstable and blood thirsty miners, discouraged him from wasting time on anything not absolutely necessary.

No sooner had the engineer blown the all clear, than Arte was charging out the car that housed their horses, and into the midday sun of the thriving city of Denver. His first stop was the temporary capital building, an expansive hotel that had been saved from destruction during the start of the silver boom, by the territorial governor.

Artemus was surprised to see the building under construction on one side, and was even more surprised to see not Governor Samuel Elbert enshrined on canvas over the main stair, but the fierce glare of a Union Cavalry General surveying the hall. Removing his hat as he stepped into the building Arte stared up at the visage with his mouth open, squinting to read the plaque under the painting.

"General Edward M. McCook..of Stubenville, Ohio!?"

Several workers who had been laying marble tiling down the hall to his left stopped their work at the sound of Arte's surprised protest. They stared until Arte straightened his back and shoulders and gave them a cool brush off with his eyes, heading down the hall on the opposite side to where Sam Elbert's office used to be. The room he was accustomed to was shut up and locked, and held a plaque that read Records. The two doors on either side also said Records. The next door Arte tried to open held a secretary.

Very blonde and pale, light Icelandic blue eyes hidden behind small round-rimmed glasses, the woman paused mid-key stroke, poised behind a desk bearing a new type-writing machine, and asked, "May I help you?"

Arte struggled with a string of non-sensical noises before he snapped his mouth shut and bowed slightly, then left, closing the door. In the empty hall he straightened his jacket, sneered at himself for being so unprofessional a performer, and entered again a second later.

This time he entered with confidence going straight to the young woman's desk. "Miss...Adams?" He asked in a curt tone, with a tiny hint of an Eastern accent.

The secretary shook her head, her lips pursed attractively in a curious cupid's bow.

"Smith?"

Again she shook her head, no.

"Genesee? Williams?" No, and no.

"Well that exhausts the secretaries I know, you must be new. Allan Penobscot of the Denver Tribune, pleasure." Arte offered a spread-fingered hand to her, then drew it back when her delicate fingers remained poised on the long, elbow like keys. "That's Penobscot, 'e' not an 'i', one 't' not two, and hold the 'h'." His voice had risen a few pitches higher than normal and he let a snorting laugh come through his nose. "Some people are so liberal with their 'h's. Your name again?"

Her lips parted as she took a breath to answer but Arte interrupted. "I'm sure you've a lovely handle really, Miss, but I simply haven't the time. You see I just returned to town this morning and my editor is snip, snip, snip all over my tail desperate for a story on just what those blue collars are doing to this old hotel. And he doesn't just want a man on the street point of view, he wants it from the top." Arte paused a second then shouted, "The top!" Slamming his palm down on the secretaries desk causing her to jump and his skin to sting. He let out an apologetic snort, as if he hadn't meant to be so exuberant, then reached out his thumb and forefinger pulling back the edge of the sheet of paper the secretary had been typing on.

"So you see I simply must..ah sorry." Arte apologized as the startled young woman snatched the paper from the rollers before he could read what had been written. "I say, I simply must get in to see the Governor, that Ohio fellow, before noon.." Pulling his watch from his vest Arte popped it open, then reacted with shock to the time. "My heavens I've ten minutes. Before noon you see young lady or my tail is toast." Already the secretary was getting to her feet and shuffling away from him and toward the door.

"Ah..." Arte muttered and beat her to the door knob opening the door with another slight bow. With a barely managed polite smile the woman took off down the hall as quickly as her heels and narrow hemmed skirt would allow. "So I'll just...wait here?" Arte called after her before he closed the door. As he suspected the room the secretary had occupied had a door that would lead him into the records room. He could have taken the time to search for a key, but instead picked the lock and let himself in.

The room was stuffy, crammed with oak filing cabinets and dim, with heavy curtains pulled most of the way closed over the two windows. Labels on each cabinet guided him to a section containing old newspapers, and these he flipped through as quickly as possible finally finding what he as looking for.

In the past few years any information one needed out of Denver could usually be had via Sam Elbert. The man was a friend and had been instrumental in the past for both Arte and his partner.

Breaking in a new governor especially one from so stiff lipped a state as Ohio, would take time and eloquence that Arte didn't have to spare. Ever since leaving Saguache that morning he'd had a growing fear in his stomach that he couldn't shake. Part of it stemming from the unspoken hunch Jim had had about the Sheriff.

Arte needed to know who J. B. Chaffee was, and an article bearing the man's name and face on the cover of a three-month old Denver newspaper would do for starters. Arte stuffed the paper into his lapel and listened at the door that lead into the hallway, before he picked the lock and stuck his head out. The secretary was returning at a steaming, huffing march with two city police officers in tow. Arte ducked back into the room, waited for them to pass his door and enter the secretary's office, then ducked out, walking at a steady pace until he was on the street.

He had mounted his horse, removed his jacket and blended into Denver traffic by the time the cops came tumbling out of the capital building. Deciding he had earned a quick lunch Arte found a small café where he could eat and read his newspaper in peace.


	5. Chapter 5

It took Jim West and three of Bowdeen's deputies almost an hour to roust the crew of hung-over miners from their beds that morning. While Joseph Killinger, 30, collected and filled canteens, Paul Dunham, 31, went around with Jim kicking the men out of their bedrolls. Each grumbling, or moaning, volunteer was then pointed in the direction of the Mears' Town tavern where the third deputy, 24-year-old Wyatt Sumner stood with the gingham clad lady cook doling out a bona fide, guaranteed to work hangover cure. Each man was either forced to swallow the concoction, or return to Saguache in the valley.

By eight that morning Jim had a crew of 35 relatively prepared and awake miners gathered at the entrance to the western toll road. Each man was equipped with his own supply laden mule, and a headache. The way some of them looked Jim wondered if they hadn't been drinking even before they volunteered. His head was pounding slightly in sympathy, and he wondered further if Artemus hadn't slipped something into the tea, last night.

The hangover cure appeared to be working however, and Jim addressed the group while he had most of their attention.

"You men have been working in these mountains for some time, but very few of you are properly trained for what we're trying to accomplish. There are three things each of you has to remember. First, none of you are to go anywhere alone. You'll be a danger to yourself and to the men who will have to come looking for you. Second, these mountains are Ute territory. While most of the tribes are friendly, you should avoid any interactions with them if at all possible. This isn't an armed posse, this is search and rescue. The third thing you should remember is that we aren't just looking for the..." Jim paused, considered for a moment then threw out the term most of the men had been using for the past 24 hours anyway, "The Cannibal of Colorado. We're also looking for the bodies of his victims as evidence of his crimes. It is very important that any evidence we find remain as we find it. If you find a pick axe, a piece of clothing, or any sort of remains, leave it where it is and mark it with one of these." Jim held up a 2 foot wooden stake with a strip of white cloth attached to it. "Report the location of the marker to the leader of your group and they will mark it on the maps they've been provided with."

Jim paused a moment surveying the men. It was like watching the eyes of fresh troops, their first day on a battle field. Some of them looked excited, some scared, some utterly confused.

"Alright, you men there will be heading to the North with Mr. Killinger. You men, to the North West with Dunham. The rest of you will be with Mr. Sumner and myself going directly West. Cover five miles only then return to the rendezvous."

Jim hadn't intended to ask the men if there were any questions but a small hand was raised in the back unbidden.

"What is it?" Jim asked, watching as the bodies of men parted from the back to the front until a boy, no more than 11 years-old, appeared near the elbow of Wyatt Sumner in the front row.

"What's your name?" Jim asked, toning his voice as if he were still speaking to a man his age.

"Tommy Killinger, sir."

Jim snapped his gaze to Joseph Killinger and saw the man smiling proudly at his boy.

"Alright, Tommy Killinger, what's your question?"

"When you get that killer are you gonna hang him?" The vehement question shocked Jim just a little, and was followed by a burst of grumbles and agreement from the men, who finally seemed to have shaken the cotton out of their skulls.

Jim pressed his lips together. He knew full well that Alfred Packer, the man accused, was sitting in the deepest and dankest cell that Mears' Town jail had to offer. His volunteers may have been under the impression that this was a man hunt, but Jim didn't want any innocent they happened upon to be lynched on the spot. Especially not in the name of protecting the man who was actually guilty as sin.

He waited for the noise to die down before he addressed the group with his voice, Tommy Killinger with his eyes. "You don't know what this man looks like, how tall he is, or how dangerous. All you really know is what you've heard. We could find anybody up in those mountains, innocent or guilty. Now Tommy, what if the man we found was your Pa? Would you want us to hang him without a trial?"

"But my Pa ain't no killer, Mister."

"Sure, we know that. But what if we didn't know who your Pa was, and just decided he looked guilty. Should we hang him?"

The boy shook his head, chagrined and Jim roughed the kid's hair. "How about you go make sure your Pa has everything he needs."

The men around him seemed to take the same advice and went to the string of mules carrying packs, double checking that each was secure and ready.

Within the hour Jim and the crew of miners were in the mountains. They found a few trails that the locals said led back to streams and nowhere else, then some switchbacks that would lead to the first set of trails. They had traveled nearly four miles along the toll road Old Man Mear's had cut before Killinger and Sumner found likely enroutes. Jim marked the spot on his map as their rendezvous point then saw to it that the men assigned to Killenger and Dunham had cleared the main trail before he and Sumner struck out, heading as directly West as they could.

The mountains were picturesque to say the least. Wherever the trees were dense enough to cover the trail the air was cool and moist, disturbed by only the slightest of breezes that made the climb more acceptable. The incline was too steep to allow for riding and while the mules seemed accustomed to the activity, Jim's horse was laboring, even without a rider.

They covered the first mile in an hour finding little sign of human activity. Jim wasn't surprised. He'd read some of the gibberish that had been called a confession the night before. Compiled by the men at Los Pinos Indian Agency, Alfred Packer had told a long, convoluted and ill-conceived tale of woe outlining what he claimed were the last terrible days of his victims.

According to his testimony Packer had been the guide for a large group of miners heading into the San Juan hills in late 1873. After becoming lost, losing most of their food and growing desperate Packer claimed they were taken in by a Ute tribe who cared for them, while urging them not to go on until the spring.

Packer's testimony seemed ambivalent to the decision, stating only that he decided to go with the five men who refused to wait, and that they set out in January of 1874 heading for the Los Pinos Indian Agency.

By April, Packer was the only one to have survived. When he first turned up he was spending the money of dead men and carried pieces of meat in his pack that were later identified as human. Somewhere in that time he had covered over 80 miles of mountainous terrain on foot.

Since then Alfred Packer had given a dozen differing stories as to how the men with him had died, how they, or he, had come to resort to eating human flesh, and how he had been the sole recipient of the combined wealth of the miners.

According to the testimony garnered by General Adam's men the five prospectors named by Packer were the only ones missing. None of the names had been Chaffee.

"Mr. West..." Wyatt Sumner spoke up from behind Jim's horse. He was the only man among them who had chosen to carry his supplies on his person and walked with a pack slung over his back that he claimed to have made himself. "I've only been in Saguache about a year, but, there have been men climbing all over these mountains, just about every day. If there was somethin' to find..."

Jim moved through a thin patch of dirt squeezed between two boulders, watched his animal's hooves as he navigated the narrow strip, then stepped up into the shade of a conifer hanging out over the trail.

"Those men were looking for gold and silver. Not bodies." He said, breathing heavily into the mouth of his canteen. He had forgotten how thin the air could get in the mountains, and his map showed they had climbed almost 150 feet from the rendezvous.

Over Sumner's shoulder Jim could see the line of men and pack mules steadily worming their way up the trail. Neither the men nor the mules seemed anywhere near as wiped out as Jim felt. His pulse was pounding away in his skull making both his headache, and the swelling in his wrist, pound painfully with it. His horse wasn't faring much better. It had to have been only the thin air, but that could be enough to cause the animal to stumble, break a leg or pull a tendon. It wasn't a risk he was willing to take.

"Wyatt, what do you say you give these men a break once their up here under the shade. Give me an hour or so to get back down the mountain."

"You're gonna go alone? But Mr. West you said..."

"I know, I know." Jim said, the light-headed feeling causing bright, white things to flit around in front of his eyes. "But I'll be fine, Arte, besides all those men and mules left a trail a blind man could follow."

"Um..Mr. West..." Wyatt began, following Jim as he led his horse against the flow of men and animals heading up the hill.

"Don't worry, Arte, I'll be fine!" Jim called over his shoulder.

"My name's Wyatt!"

The first two men that had been climbing behind the young deputy had already crested the hill and were looking askance at Sumner for guidance. Wyatt couldn't very well leave the miners on their own, and if push came to shove and West wasn't back in an hour, they could simply return to the rendezvous together. West was right, the trail was fairly obvious.

Pulling the pack tight against his shoulders Sumner deepened his voice and ordered the first few men to find wood for fire. "We'll be resting here for an hour. You men can make coffee and a hot lunch if you wish."

Wyatt climbed to the top of one of the boulders forming the narrow entrance to the shaded ledge and watched Jim West and the black horse he led until they disappeared.

* * *

The newspaper introduced Jerome B. Chaffee as a 49-year-old entrepreneur, city founder and founder of the First National Bank of Denver.

"Not important at all..." Arte muttered to himself facetiously as he scanned the rest of the article. Primarily it was a fluff piece celebrating the greatness of Chaffee, his visions for Colorado's eventual move to statehood and his plans for the future of the city of Denver. Near the very bottom was the reason for the article. A short announcement for the happy engagement of Chaffee's daughter, his only child, to Ulysses S. Grant Jr., the son of President Grant himself.

For a long minute Arte sat stunned, paralyzed with indecision, not sure where to run first. Questions tumbled around his head like circus performers, some of them landing with answers, and others with still more questions.

"Sir.."

If Chaffee had only one child, and that child was not yet married, why would Washington have sent them a cable warning them to look for the body of Chaffee's son? Was it truly Washington that had sent the message, or was this son, this second child...some illegitimate sire that the great Chaffee wanted kept secret?

"Pardon me...um, sir?"

Surely Grant was aware of his son's engagement. The last Arte had checked the boy had just graduated from Harvard and was preparing for law school...in Ohio. Why was Ohio suddenly cropping up everywhere? Why would President Grant, the man Arte and Jim were most answerable to, send his best and brightest on a wild goose chase, looking for a son that Grant had to have known didn't exist?

He had to speak to Chaffee. That was the next step.

"Sir?"

"Hmm? Oh! I'm terribly sorry, yes dear?"

The young waitress had been standing at his elbow, growing redder and redder at his lack of response, Arte realized.

"Were you planning on ordering?"

Arte felt his stomach gurgle in response, loud enough for the poor girl to hear. The paper rattled in his hands and Chaffee's dignified face accosted his conscious until he stood, tucking the paper under his arm.

"Uh...no, I'm terribly sorry, but I must be..." He dug in his pockets thinking he could leave a few coins for the girl's time. All he came up with was a dollar piece and few pennies and he dumped those on the table-cloth, apologetically before he stepped away from the open air table to head down the street. A second later he remembered his coat, and jogged back to his seat to pull it from the seat back, apologized again with a smile, walked away then remembered his hat.

This time he put his hat on his head, then tipped it giving a final "So very sorry.", before he waltzed down the street trying to put his coat on over the paper still tucked under his arm. Arte missed the flattered smile on the girl's face as watched his progress down the street.

He was too busy coming up with his next disguise. Chaffee would be at his bank, Arte thought, so he would need a character from his repertoire that a banker couldn't afford to turn away. In the seven blocks between the cafe on Jefferson, and Chaffee's establishment on Second, Arte become Hector Don Iglesias, a Mexican cattle baron looking to invest his next fortune in the First National Bank of Denver.

The building was surprisingly modest. Arte had expected great glass windows and gargoyles, etchings of famous personages above the gables and a feeling of overwhelming masculine dominance. The First National wasn't a hovel necessarily but a building built for a purpose other than towering over its neighbors. Instead of a cathedral it was an elegant if simple church, instead of Grand Central Station it was a well-appointed neighborhood depot. It took some of the pretentious sheen off of J. B. Chaffee, founder of everything under the Denver sun.

Arte was already rethinking his approach.

He always kept a spare mustache or two in each of his coats and he had applied a pencil thin line of hair to his upper lip with a little stolen shoe polish. Setting his hat at a jaunty angle and tucking his lapels inside his jacket had given him a Spanish Don look that would pass a cursory inspection. It was the best he could do.

The fact that he apparently didn't have a cent in his pockets might dissuade the bank staff, but then,

"Don't you know, senor. De truly wealthy never carry dere money with dem."

The weasel faced man in front of him seemed a little too much for even the building, but he had been the first teller to greet him.

"Now, as I have tol' joo. I am Don Iglesias of de family Iglesias in southern Mexico and your fine establishment as been drawn to my attentions. Is elegante without being pretencioso." Arte desperately wished he had a cape in that moment. Maybe it was something he could sew into the lining of one of his jackets. He turned a slow circle sweeping one arm up to take in the moderate grandeur of the bank's interior. "It reminds me of mi casa de la familia. La gran hacienda, entender?"

"Do you wish to make a deposit, sir?"

"Si!"

"Ah!" The teller sparked, his face breaking into a pleased smile, as if he'd finally broken through the language barrier.

Arte watched the man for a long moment then mimicked his reaction perfectly. "Ah! ¿Qué significa este "Ah!"?"

Once more he was given the deadened, weasel look and walked away from the teller and his window without a word, once more feigning interest in the wood work of the counter. His first try had failed but that wasn't such a surprise. He'd try the next teller, he thought, tipping his hat to an elderly woman standing in line before he cut in front of her and threw back his shoulders for the next performance.

The face that greeted him was older, but he had to admit, healthier looking. It took everything in Arte's being not to explode in sheer delight. He choked his elation down with difficulty, waiting for the teller to turn from the drawer he was sorting.

"Hola, senor. Perhaps you can help me." Arte said, making sure to shove the last vowel through his nose with a hidden 'n' sound on the end. "I wish to speak to the manager." He did his best to look down his nose sternly and watched as the balding, shorter man turned to face him.

Tennyson started to smile in a polite and professional way, then recognized the Spaniard before him and just barely caught the wink before he gave the game away entirely. Short of dropping his cash drawer Tennyson managed to pull himself together.

"Certainly, sir!" He chimed, trying desperately not to sound too happy about it. "I'd be delighted sir, please, right this way!" The older Englishman, man-servant turned bank teller, quickly went to the security door that was hidden in the wooden paneling next to teller window, and unlatched it to allow the 'Don' entry. Deaf to the unhappy grumbles of the customers at his window Tennyson slid a shade down that was marked 'closed' on the other side, and lead Arte down a narrow passage that eventually opened into a short foyer.

Two maple wood doors with brass paneling and a bronze plaque bearing Chaffee's name stood before them, ominously closed.

"Is he in there?" Arte asked, quietly, breaking character.

"Oh yes. Probably with the board of directors at the moment." Tennyson responded, every bit the proper Englishman that he had always been.

Arte couldn't stop the smile now and turned it full beam on his old friend, who returned it as equally.

Stifling a shout of joy, Arte threw his arms around the smaller man, before clapping him soundly on the shoulders.

"Ah Tennyson!"

"My stars, Mr. Gordon, of all the faces I expected to see." There were even tears of joy in the older man's eyes and Arte grinned.

"I tell ya it was everything I could do not to jump for joy back there." He said, throwing his thumb back down the hall. "I thought we left you in Washington, how did you end up back here?"

"Mr. Gordon, I became so enchanted with your west, when President Grant asked me where I would most like to be I told him, "Send me back, sir, if you please." Of course my physician wouldn't hear of me trekking about in the dust, but I've found Denver to be most civilized for a western hub. I spend me days here at the bank, my afternoons at the club, and my evenings...with my wife." Tennyson smiled proudly, his hands going automatically behind his back as he rocked onto his heels for a moment.

"Congratulations!" Arte pumped the smaller man's hand, feeling like his cheeks would break from the smiling.

"Winifred and I would be so pleased to have you drop by Mr. Gordon."

"Ah, I would love to, Tennyson. Better still I can't wait to tell James, he'll be tickled pink to see ya...but uh..."

"Ah, you're in the middle of an assignment." Tennyson said, smiling and gracious as ever.

Arte nodded regretfully, "And the last thing I would ever do is put your job in jeopardy, but if you've got any pull with Mr. Chaffee..."

"Nonsense, Mr. Gordon. My exploits with you and Mr. West in the field were few and far between, but the sacrifices that you both have made for this great country outweigh any risk I may undertake." With that Tennyson lifted a single finger for Arte to wait there and went to the door. Arte realized suddenly it was the first time he had seen Tennyson's hands without pristine white gloves.

Before he could knock Arte, took a step forward and whispered loudly, "Tennyson. I've just realized something. I'm ashamed to say I've forgotten your first name."

The diminutive man smiled softly and whispered back. "Walter." Before he knocked, opened one of the great doors and stuck his head in.

"Forgive the interruption sir. A Don Iglesias to see you."

From the depths of the room came a reverberating, "Show him in."

Arte gave Walter Tennyson's shoulder a final pat before he was back in character and walking into the grandest office he had ever seen west of the Mississippi.


	6. Chapter 6

"Don Iglesias, a pleasure to meet you sir, I've heard of your family." Jerome Chaffee was the perfect mix of sincerity, charm and power, unfortunately stuffed into a package that only allowed for some of that to show on the surface. The man had one dead eye that drifted ever so slightly. At first glance it was invisible, especially with the lenses Chaffee wore.

But it explained some of the discomfort Arte had felt even under the gaze of a photograph in a newspaper. It also explained how seamlessly Jerome Chaffee had just lied to his face.

Iglesias was not a name anyone would recognize, from Mexico, or any other Spanish-speaking country. It was one of the more common surnames in Central America, hence Arte having chosen it. Further, Chaffee couldn't have known of his arrival until moments before he was ushered through the door. Chaffee's response had been cool, calm, and clever. Arte found himself respecting the man's abilities, despite being certain he would grow to hate him.

"I thank you, sir, for that kind greeting, but you've wasted it I'm afraid." Arte said with no trace of an accent. "I'm here on the behalf of President Grant; I'm sure you're more familiar with his son."

Arte waited, watching thickly veiled emotions play across the rich man's face. After a moment Jerome Chaffee gave Gordon a sneer, which might have passed for a smile in most circles.

"You must be one of President Grant's "secret servicemen"." Chaffee muttered, putting a sarcastic emphasis on Arte's job title. Without waiting for a response Chaffee sat back down behind his desk, turning his good eye toward the paperwork he had been signing.

"One of many sir, but at the moment one of two, sent to Colorado to find the missing remains of your son...or so we were told."

Chaffee paused again, frozen, hunched over a scatter of documents that might have been deeds, foreclosures, or a will for all Arte knew. For the moment he had Chaffee's attention again.

"Now you can imagine my surprise when I arrived in Denver to find your son conspicuously missing from all records..." An exaggeration but who was counting? "And our trip to have been a giant waste of government funds." Arte let a little anger seep into his words, leaning forward with his hands steepled on Chaffee's desk. The imposition bothered the man further, as did Arte hanging over what would normally be confidential documents. "For all you have to say about the future of Colorado, you don't appear to be helping it much."

Finally Chaffee stood, eyeing Artemus before he tossed his pen onto his desk and walked around it toward the door. He opened the giant maple panels, checking that the foyer was clear before he closed them again and gestured Arte toward one of the large stuffed chairs in a corner of the room that Arte might have called a library annex. A cold fireplace charmed its way between the two leather upholstered, high back chairs, and a table full of crystal decanters and tumblers sat to the left of the chair that was clearly Chaffee's.

Arte briefly thought about sitting in the banker's seat, but decided that antagonizing his host further wasn't likely to get him answers.

"He is not my son, Mr..."

"Gordon."

"Mr. Gordon. He is my nephew. And my only male heir until my daughter marries."

As if this answered the hundreds of tiny riddles dancing in Arte's head, Chaffee poured himself a drink and swallowed it in one gulp, not offering anything to his guest.

Arte waited, using an interrogation technique he had been learning recently, and without prompting Chaffee quietly continued.

"His name is George. He prefers to go by the name of California and was headed there almost a year ago. Seven months ago his mother received a letter from him, claiming that he was heading for the mines in southern Colorado Territory. I've heard nothing from him since."

Arte waited, watching Chaffee's right hand twitch, then finally reach for the decanter again. "He chose that preposterous name after reading some silly dime novel about gun fighters and cowboys. What nonsense." Had Chaffee taken a gulp of his freshly poured drink he would have lost most of it when he spat the word 'preposterous' at the fire-place. The banker managed to get all of what had to be scotch down his throat, however, and finally forced himself to put the glass down.

Arte was already getting a picture of what it was he and Jim had truly been asked to do, and further, who had asked them to do it, but pressed his lips together and waited, studying the trembling and enraged man before him.

"I simply want to know that the boy has...come to no harm.." Chaffee tried, finally turning to face Artemus.

The Secret Service agent smiled quietly from his chair and shook his head. "No, Mr. Chaffee. I don't believe that's case." Arte stood, now certain of his hypothesis, and equally as certain that he needed to get back to The Wanderer as quickly as possible. It would also behoove him to warn Tennyson not to remain employed at this particular bank, Arte thought.

"Mr. Gordon...where are you going?" Chaffee demanded as Arte walked to the double doors, and after a moment, decided on a little artistic flare, opening both doors at once.

"Mr. Gordon!"

It felt good to let the powerful man stew in his own soup. Even if it would end up being the only victory Arte enjoyed out of this whole case, it was enough.

Before he left the bank Arte jotted down a quick note for Tennyson, tucking it into the man's hand under the guise of a business-like handshake.

Then he was out the door, collecting his horse and riding like a mad man through the dimming streets of Denver. He had to get back to Saguache, he had to send a telegraph message to Washington, and he had to know how many Grants' were in the Whitehouse on the 3rd of August.

* * *

Jim didn't feel well. His head had gone from a steady pounding pain, to skull splitting agony, accompanied by the fires of Hades itself enveloping his head and his left wrist. He remembered that he hadn't always felt this way, even remembered that he had been going someplace before, and that whatever that trip had been, explained why he was on his horse now, hanging tightly to the animal's neck.

Nothing else really made sense. He could have sworn that Arte had been with him only a few minutes before, telling him about rules...like the rules of chess, or checkers. Important rules that he had to remember if he was going to play the game properly. But he couldn't remember a game, and when he opened his eyes he didn't see Arte. Somewhere deep in him he knew that lifting his head would be a very bad mistake so he stayed where he was, comforted by the familiar smell of horseflesh, and the steady sway of his mount's gait.

He'd happily go to sleep if he wasn't so thirsty. Parched, bleached like dry bones. Exactly like the dried skull he'd just passed. An antelope or something with horns.

A skull. A dead body. Remains. He was being reminded of something. It was a pesky thought that kept flitting about just out of reach, and Jim would just as soon have left it for the wolves, but the memory wouldn't leave him alone.

And he was thirsty!

Then suddenly some of the heat was gone. His horse, the smart beast that it was, had found shade. They were walking still but the blessed cool provided by overhanging pines was like the burst of cool clean water that he was desperate for.

He opened his mouth to drink it in, but instead let out an unexpected, pain filled scream as his arm hit something. A pine bough, or a rock. It didn't matter. It felt like the skin on his arm had been ripped off and Jim reacted, flinching away from the source of pain and upsetting his delicate balance in the saddle. The horse's sudden panic at the scream didn't help him any and Jim was soon on the ground, still in the blessed cool, but stuck on his back in the dust.

Thirsty.

His arm still throbbing worse than before.

Stupid horse.

* * *

Arte boarded The Wanderer and requested track clearance immediately. He was told by the engineer that they had a twenty-minute wait for the 9:00 express to come through, and that it would take that long to work up a head of steam anyway. Satisfied that it was the best that could be done, Arte headed back for the varnish car and sat down at the desk, staring at the telegraph key while he worded things in his head.

Grant. But which one? And how could he know?

Was Grant Jr. really capable of that sort of subterfuge, or was he an unwitting boob in this elaborate plot.

And Chaffee...He could see the attraction, the desperate need for what Jerome Chaffee had done but the banker had shown that odd quirk that all powerful men displayed. No matter how bloodthirsty and greedy they were, they always made the mistake of trying to justify their dirty deeds. There was no doubt in Arte's mind that the man was guilty, but guilty of how much?

And Packer...was he truly insane, or just sounding that way because of conflicting stories. Was he smarter than any of them gave him credit for, or a convenient scape goat?

Arte gritted his teeth, trying to shake the useless suppositions out of his head. His stomach painfully complaining now. He still hadn't eaten.

And yet there had been no messages for him, which concerned Arte all the more. Jim might have intended that his search parties remain bivouacked for the evening, but surely West could have made an effort to get back to town and send some sort of update.

"It's only been a day, Artemus. You can't run to his aid every time he forgets to check-in." Arte muttered to himself, his fingers still poised over the key. Stalling.

He needed his partner there. He needed Jim sitting in the chair opposite the desk, fiddling with something while Arte threw theories at him. He needed West to weed out the wild ideas and ground the reasonable ones. He needed to discuss the case with the only person he could truly trust before he tried to reach out to anyone else.

With a disgusted grunt Arte slid the telegraph key back into its hidey-hole and closed the doors.

He checked his watch. It'd only been five minutes. He was about to start pacing when he remembered his relatively neglected horse in the cavalry car. The animal would need a good brushing, some oats and fresh water. All tasks that Gordon could do while waiting for the train to leave the station.

Arte had just left the varnish car, passing quietly over the distance between the platforms on his way to the equine-car when what sounded like the start of the Second battle of Manassas broke out. A cavalcade of gunshots echoed through the night preceded by the smack of bullets hitting treated wood, bursting through etched glass and knocking down anything not nailed down in the varnish car. Arte ducked, heard a bullet whine past his head after hitting a metal railing, then jumped, landing on rails and gravel at a painful angle. From under the car he could see the lightning show of muzzle blasts coming from a half-dozen black carriages sitting along side the tracks thirty feet away. Their fire, it seemed, was concentrated solely on the varnish car.

Tugging himself to his feet via the handrail on the side of the cavalry car, Arte stumbled across the ballast, moving as quickly as he could down the length of the train, past the hopper, to the engine. He leapt aboard startling the engineer and the fireman.

"Do we have enough steam to-" A pop and whine cut Arte off and he ducked down to where the two train men were wisely cowering. "To get the hell out!?" Arte yelled.

The engineer stared at Gordon, still in shock for a moment, before he seemed to shake himself out of his stupor and looked to the gauges above his head.

"Just about!" The man shouted, before all three of them ducked again. The shooters were becoming more liberal with their targets.

"In that case our guests have just given us clearance, full steam ahead!" Arte shouted. Seconds later the whistle of the 9:00 express sounded down the track, the engine crossing the junction that The Wanderer would need access to.

"Someone will have to throw the main switch." The engineer yelled, clambering to his hands and knees even as the fireman managed to get a full shovel of coal into the furnace at a half-crouch.

"I can do that when we get closer, how many cars on the 9:00?" Arte asked.

Both men shrugged. Their eyes were wide and the engineer clearly didn't know it yet but he had been creased on the arm by a stray bullet. Yet, they were doing their jobs in spite of it all and if the government wasn't collapsed by the time the case was over Arte was putting both men in for commendations.

The Wanderer was rolling forward seconds before the last car of the 9:00 express cleared the switch. In the same moment that the noise of the other train died away Arte noticed that the gunfire had died too. That could be good, and it could be bad.

"Leave the headlight off til we're out of the station..." Arte muttered, waiting for the engineer to nod in agreement. Already the engine was building speed, nearing the junction at a walking pace. Arte carefully lowered himself to the ground and picked his way quickly over the rocky ballast, the rails, and to the other side of the train. Thirty yards ahead was the switch that would allow them onto the main track.

To his chagrin Arte could hear the men in the carriages catching on.

"Tennyson, my apologies ol' buddy, but Denver doesn't appear to like me anymore." Arte muttered before he made a mad dash for the switch. Gun shots followed him, but most of them fell silent quickly after. Several of the men had forgotten to reload after the first cease-fire.

Arte operated the groaning switch manually, using all his weight to slide the tracks into place in one smooth motion.

On the street some of the deadly carriages had already made a run for it. Arte could hear the clang of a fire wagon in some distant part of the city, and he imagined his attackers weren't going to hang about much longer. As The Wanderer rolled by Arte gave the engineer and fireman a salute, then waited for the equine-car to pass before he stepped aboard.

To his relief his mount's rolling home appeared mostly untouched.

Arte waited until they had cleared the station before he stepped into the quiet of the cavalry car. He felt the adrenaline, the lack of food for over 24 hours, and every worry he'd had for the past week come crashing down on him all at once. Suddenly he was shaking from head to toe and his knees felt like rubber.

He held onto the rails of the empty stall that normally held Jim's horse and stared hard at the wall until the shaking and the flood of emotions abated a little.

He took his time tending to his animal, talking quietly and soothingly to the beast as he rubbed her down from ears to tail, fed her two apples cut into quarters and replenished her water, feed and hay.

"You've done well today, old girl." He told her, leaving her with that quiet praise before he braced himself for the disaster area that the varnish car would be.

The bits of stuffing that had been blown out of the chairs and the settee were floating around the car, in the constant breeze from the shattered windows, making the rolling parlor look like the inside of a child's snow globe. Arte pressed a hand against his stomach, feeling the emotions flood back again.

They were things after all, and not even his things, or Jim's. They belonged to Uncle Sam. But the car had become home. More of a home than Arte would ever admit to having in the past. Arte was suddenly struck by the memory of the words he had spoken, standing on the platform of that very car, in Saguache.

"Cheated." He repeated to himself, his voice raw with the emotion held at bay. "Pillaged. Rousted out of your sense of security."

A moment later he remembered Henrietta and rushed for the door to the supply room, kicking debris out of the way before he forced it open. Her cage had been wrecked but the pigeon sat non-plussed on a nest of her own feathers, agitated loose by the excitement.

Arte felt relief wash over him and smiled grimly at the bird. "Sorry about the new plumage, darling."

He wiped at the damp gathering around his eyes, and surveyed the damage again, determined to have as much of it set right as possible by the time they returned to Saguache. "But we all make sacrifices, don't we dear."


	7. Chapter 7

_Fingers brushed over his forehead leaving something cool and pungent behind. It wasn't a casual move, but intentional. Like an artist crafting a design on canvas. Another sweep of skin against skin and the pounding tension at his temples began to ease, sending a wave of relief through his system that was so welcome he groaned aloud. More of the cool wetness, that felt like mud mixed with something else, was smeared across his cheek bones, delicate care taken to avoid getting any of it in his eyes._

_Sage. That was what it smelled of. Sage and some other mountain plant he couldn't remember._

_There was only the burning in his arm that remained and he waited, knowing without a doubt that the relief would come. All he need do was be patient._

_It didn't come immediately however._

_First there were a hundred pricking sensations, followed by a thousand nerve endings bursting like fire works. There was warm wetness on his arm, then a terrorizing agony that tore at his mind, dragging him back from the dark safe place of no pain, and trying to force him, kicking and screaming into the harsh, horrible light of reality. He didn't want to go and he struggled amidst hands suddenly pushing against his chest and shoulders. Forcing him awake._

_He begged to be allowed to rest, to go back to that place of nothing, but words that he couldn't understand were clawing at his ears, dragging their consonants like talons through his tender mind, ripping whatever they found to shreds._

_He struggled until he had nothing left to struggle with, exhausting himself but still denied that blessed sleep._

_Then the cooling came, that sensation that he had despaired of feeling again, and a voice softly told him, "Rest." And it sounded like West. And he wondered why that direction was so important to him._

_Then he was in the black, and it didn't matter at all._

* * *

The Wanderer limped into Saguache at four in the morning, the brakes letting loose of the pent-up steam like a dying sigh.

The return trip had been delayed twice due to damage caused by the hail of bullets in Denver. While none of the projectiles could have pierced any part of the engine, they had managed to glance against and upset the seals on a number of bolts on the tank.

The first stop had been the result of several bolts on the outside of the boiler rattling loose and the steam escaping at twice the normal rate, both deteriorating the shell of the boiler, and reducing the power of the locomotive severely.

Arte left his work in the varnish car long enough to help the engineer and fireman with repairs, welding temporary patches over the holes that would see the engine through to Saguache. He spelled the exhausted fireman until they had enough steam to travel again, then trudged back to the parlor.

Most of the broken glass had been cleared, the flying stuffing corralled and countless splinters of wood picked up when the engine stopped the second time. There was a leak in the brake lines, the engineer said. He had felt the impacts of the cars against the engine on some of the down hill runs, and thought that there was far too much weight coming down on the gears.

Arte yawned endlessly over a lantern as the engineer and fireman inspected the brake lines under the cars, and stretching between the platforms. Nearly every one had been compromised.

It took over 2 hours for them to find, or manufacture, suitable replacements. By then the fireman's back was frozen in a stooped position.

Arte took over for him for good, ordering the man to his bed, and shoveling coal (something he hadn't done in decades) until the San Juan mountains and the haze of smoke in the air from the town of Saguache loomed ahead.

The engineer was sluggish but steady at the controls all the way to the siding, pulling The Wanderer to a perfect stop in exactly the same spot she had occupied 24 hours ago. Even in his mostly-not-awake state Arte was deeply impressed. More so when the engineer insisted on doing his final walk around check before he too went to sleep.

The pain that Arte had felt at seeing the varnish car torn asunder, was reflected in the engineer as he looked over the damage to his engine in the pre-dawn light.

"They're gonna pay for this, eh, Mr. Gordon?"

Arte took in a slow breath through his nose and nodded. "Yeah." He growled softly. "Through the teeth." He didn't yet know who exactly 'they' were, but...he knew there would be vindication. One way or another.

Once the engineer's wounded arm had been treated, and he and the fireman were tucked safely into their berths, Arte returned to the parlor.

He was desperately tired, fighting the hunger pains stabbing like knives in his stomach, but unable to sleep or eat. His life-saving tumble from the platform of the cavalry car in Denver had left painful bruises along his right side, and an evening of shoveling coal had given him some open blisters on his palms and stiffening muscles that made him even more sore and foul spirited. His partner was still out there, somewhere. And while the sane, reasonable part of Arte's mind kept telling him he was worrying over nothing, and that he needed to sleep and recover; the part that almost always proved to be right, was shouting that Jim was in trouble and time was of the essence.

Arte allowed himself the luxury of a change of clothes, moving through a fog as he pulled on clean underclothing, a yellow shirt, his brown and tan leather jacket, brown pants, and black boots. He barely remembered to grab his hat before he was out the door of the varnish car and lowering the ramp of the cavalry car.

Outside the morning air was still cool, the sun just barely making an appearance over the mountains to the east. Mears' town had retained 35 temporary citizens since yesterday and they were camped in bed rolls around small fires, or in tents in the shade of the mountain, dead asleep. A line of slumbering pack mules were hitched up in front of the tavern and the general store, but there was no sign of inhabitants in either of the two buildings. The shelters in front of the toll roads were occupied by the customary armed guards.

Two horses stood outside the jail, shifting under the weight of packs and saddles, but neither one was the black belonging to Jim West.

Arte led his mount out of the equine car and down the ramp, trudging up the inclined ground to the jail. The tied horses shied a little at his approach then settled when Gordon's mare whinnied to them. Arte was about to head into the jail when he caught sight of a rifle in a saddle holster on one of the mounts. The menacing weapon had a longer barrel than most, a customized stock, and extra room in the holster for a telescopic sight, though the device wasn't attached at the moment. Serious hunter, Arte wondered? Or something else.

Taking his hat from his head Arte wished briefly for a bath, a good long soak in a well-appointed hotel bathroom, attached to a room all his own. He couldn't remember the last time he'd slept in a hotel. Thinking about sleep at all was a bad move, he realized, and he shook it out of his head and walked into the jail.

Sheriff Bowdeen stood at the desk in his office, looking up expectantly to meet Arte's eyes with a nod of acknowledgement before he went back to packing a few things in a burlap sack.

"Mr. Gordon. Awful glad you've returned. We tried gettin' through to your rail car but somethin' must be wrong with your telegraph..."

"Yeah," Arte said, sounding and looking lost,"...something wrong with the...Are you-"

"Headin' out after your Mr. West. Seems he left the trail yesterday afternoon and never did make it back."

Feeling as though he had stepped into the tail end of an important conversation, Arte noticed the youngest of Bowdeen's deputies standing just inside the Sheriff's office. Both men left the room a moment later, Bowdeen slinging the bag he had been packing over his shoulder.

"You alright there, Mr. Gordon? Look a little rough this mornin'." The Sheriff gave Arte a once over as he passed by the Secret Serviceman. Bowdeen was outside the jail and securing the bag on his horse's hind quarters before Arte could say a word.

Wearily, ignoring the stare he was getting from the deputy still in the room, Arte popped his hat back on his head and walked back out, going straight for his horse and mounting. The sheriff joined him, ignoring the horse with the high-powered rifle, and mounting the other readied animal.

"Is that your deputy's horse?" Arte asked, pointing.

"Who, Wyatt!? Hell no, that boy can't ride a horse to save his life."

"So...who's going with us?"

"I am!" Carlos Sanderson stepped down off the boardwalk in front of the store, tugging leather gloves tight over his hands before he stepped up to the rider-less horse, took hold of the saddle horn and hopped up, catching one foot in the stirrup, and swinging the other over.

"The reporter!?" Arte demanded, his protest coming out louder than he'd intended.

"Mr. Gordon, you must go to where the news is, not wait and expect it to come to you." Sanderson declared, smirking at the sheriff before he double checked the thongs securing his rifle.

"There ain't gonna be any news on this trip, Carlos. We're lookin' for a missin' man and there ain't much time for it either." The sheriff said, clearly only a hair away from losing all patience with the man.

"I won't slow you down, Sheriff, and you can't very well keep me here." Sanderson argued, grinning.

"Well that's the funny thing about bein' Sheriff of a town. I can decide that a place is off-limits to anyone I please, iffen I feel that person might fall into danger. Until I get back that trail yonder is off-limits. Yah!" Bowdeen kicked his horse's flanks and charged across the ground with Arte at his heels, both men and their horses passing through the toll gate that had been opened for them, before Bowdeen turned. "You men have my permission to shoot any person crossing that line until Mr. Gordon and I return. You understand?"

Both guards gave acknowledgement, pointing their guns menacingly at Sanderson as he rode up.

"You'll get your story some other day, Carlos." Bowdeen called, then led the way up the toll road at a rolling canter.

The minute his horse picked up speed Arte could feel every impact in the bruises on his shoulder and thigh and in the stiff muscles of his lower back, but he gritted his teeth, the pain serving to improve his riding form by leaps and bounds. Their pace was constant for almost fifteen minutes before the Sheriff brought his animal to a full halt and waited for Gordon to pull up next to him.

Bowdeen glanced along their back trail for a moment as if expecting to be followed before he confided, "Mr. Gordon, I apologize for my abrupt behavior just now but...that fella Carlos has been gettin' on my last nerve in the past few days and I simply don't trust him not to sell his own mother for a story."

"You're not the only one, Sheriff..." Arte muttered, shifting in the saddle. "Would you mind telling me what's happened in the past twenty-four hours. I feel like I've been gone a month."

Bowdeen nodded then started his animal forward at a walk. The horse fought the bit then settled at the sound of his master's voice. "My deputy, Mr. Sumner back there, come down the mountain late yesterday afternoon with the ten men that had been assigned to him and West, claimin' your friend had started spoutin' crazy talk and took off for the head of the trail without so much as a reason why. Sumner said he waited almost two hours before he decided it was too long and he and the other miner's headed right back down the way they come with no sign of your man."

Bowdeen shifted as his horse danced a bit, shaking his head. "Sumner said he was breathin' heavy, seemed to be takin' the climb and the air harder than the rest of the men. Thought at first that he was just new to the elevation." The Sheriff shook his head, taking a breath. "When Sumner come to me I figured I'd give it til mornin' for you to come back before I headed out after him. Heard your train pullin' in early, lookin' like it'd been through a war. When I saw you leadin' your horse down the ramp I figured you were plannin' the same as me. I gotta tell ya though, after all his speechifyin' yesterday about nobody goin' anywhere alone, I sure was surprised to hear it was Mr. West that was the first to try it."

"He has to have taken ill, or been hurt..." Arte muttered before trailing off.

"Yeah well, Mr. West ain't the only one's been spendin' time alone on these trails. I've caught Carlos Sanderson more than a few times takin' the toll road for no particular reason. I suppose it started even before you fellas rolled into town. I thought he mighta been plannin' to write something about the miners maybe. Wasn't til I started talkin to your volunteers yesterday afternoon that I found out ain't none of 'em ever seen that newspaperman, on the road or at the mines."

"Could he be hunting?" Arte suggested, suddenly distracted by the feeling that he had forgotten something.

"Huntin'...in them fancy duds? Nah."

A reporter was always a sly man, Arte thought. Always intentionally pushing the boundaries of misrepresentation if it meant getting a witness to loosen up a little, or if it got him the ever illusive angle. Dishonesty on the part of a reporter didn't surprise Arte, but the rifle did. It wasn't for protection. Sanderson had been far too familiar with it, treated it too much like a tool, and not enough like a show piece.

Arte had thought Sanderson's 'good of the people' nonsense a bit heavy-handed from the start, but had figured it was the actor in him objecting, and not the observer of human behavior.

"Carlos also tried to pay a visit to our friend back in the jail," The Sheriff continued. "...demanded to see the prisoner with all that 'constitutional right' business. Packer refused to speak to him, crawled into a corner and stuck that bag over his head and wouldn't say nary a word."

"Ha! Perhaps he's not insane after all..." Arte muttered, laughing at the irony. They rode in silence for a bit before the Sheriff cleared his throat.

"You mind tellin' me..."

Arte looked up at the man and waited for him to continue.

"I suppose it ain't none of my business, but I'm a curious man by nature. How did that fancy car o' yourn get all tore up like that?"

Arte was about to answer when he saw a flash of white out of the corner of his eye. A piece of cloth fluttered in the breeze up ahead, stuck in a pine bough, and Arte kicked his horse to a gallop, bending to retrieve the article as he passed, only slowing once he had it in his hand. It was the sling Jim was supposed to have been wearing. Arte didn't remember his partner having it when he left the train the prior morning, but it might have been tucked into a saddle bag.

Arte stood in the stirrups as the Sheriff joined him, trying to see above the ledge that was at eye level, or through the thick treeline that ambled up the mountainside.

The Sheriff took the article from Arte's hand and Arte explained, "The doctor that treated Jim told him to wear it for a week."

"Would he?" Bowdeen asked, handing it back.

"Wear a sling. No, not likely." Arte turned the plain white cloth in his hands until something fell out of the folds, brushing against his wrist before it landed on the saddle. He caught it before it could fall to the ground and held the small intricately beaded patch of tanned deer hide in the palm of his hand, brushing his thumb over the glossy bits of bone, shell and clay.

"I don't suppose that belonged to your friend too." Bowdeen said.

Arte shook his head, squinting into the mounting morning light, scanning the trees around them. "There _are_ natives in these mountains, yes?"

The Sheriff nodded. "A coupla Ute tribes once you get to reservation land."

"That's where he'll be." Arte said with absolute assurance.

"Mr. Gordon the nearest reservation is more 'an seventy miles away, through mostly untraveled country. Ain't nobody but the Ute's, and a few, very lost men, ever been there, cause ain't nobody ever had the need. Your friend musta just picked this little trinket up along the way is all." The Sheriff said, tossing a pointed finger at the beaded patch still resting in Arte's palm.

"He had to have gone somewhere," Arte reasoned, "And I've never seen this 'trinket' before in my life. I know he hasn't vanished into thin air, and someone, somewhere had to have left this. Now you can either help or-"

Bowdeen threw a hand up, an old military signal for silence that Arte responded to automatically. The older man's attention was suddenly focused on the trail ahead, and Arte squinted in the same direction in time to catch the rattling of leaves that defied the almost total lack of wind on the trail.

"You wanted a Ute indian, that just might be one of 'em." Bowdeen whispered quietly before he clucked his tongue, his horse moving slowly forward. Arte hung back, still watching the ledge on their left, straining his ears to hear over the sounds of their horses.

Ahead of him Bowdeen disappeared around a bend in the trail, and Arte dismounted, following the Sheriff on foot, his hand hovering over the spot where his gun normally rested. The gun, he realized, that he had completely neglected to wear. Finally figuring out what it was he had forgotten, Arte was swearing inwardly at himself when he rounded the corner.

In a small, crescent-shaped clearing the Sheriff had also dismounted and stood in the center of a well trampled patch of mountain grasses, his hat in one hand and a second hat in the other. Jim's hat.

"Looks like your partner was hurt after all. There's a puddle of dried blood over yonder." Bowdeen said, walking toward Arte and handing off the black hat with its silver band. "There's also...some tracks." The Sheriff said, grudgingly, almost as if he were admitting to a mistake.

"Tracks..."

"Travois tracks." Bowdeen added, hedging still.

Arte found himself grinning tiredly, fighting back a fit of giggles born of exhaustion. "No Ute for 70 miles..." Arte mocked sarcastically, before he mounted again, following the Sheriff as they took to the trail again at a canter.


	8. Chapter 8

The travois, loaded with a body about Jim's weight judging by the tracks it left, traveled a mile along the toll road before it headed off the marked path and down hill. Following a dried up stream bed that Bowdeen claimed would be a rushing torrent come the following spring, the confusing tapestry of prints narrowed down to a select few. They could easily make out the unshod tracks of a mule, and several pairs of moccasins, small and taking short steps.

"Women...as if there were any doubt." Arte groused, ignoring the looks Bowdeen gave him.

The stream bed twisted and turned with the whims of gravity and The Great Mother, until it stopped at a rocky shelf, what would be a waterfall next April, but was only a sheer drop onto hard packed earth in August. The travois trail turned, cutting a swath through high grasses and twisting carefully around clumps of brambles and thorns. It continued steadily downward until one side of the trail opened up revealing a large mountain valley and a sandy clearing at the bottom of the hill. Dismounting and leading the horses, Artemus Gordon and Sheriff Bowdeen crouched and quietly approached a natural, grassy overlook to observe the small Ute village set smack in the middle of where it wasn't supposed to be.

Seven brush covered, conical structures had been built in the clearing near a sandy-beached lake stretching most of the length of the valley.

The structures, wickiups as Bowdeen called them, were too small to be considered living spaces and most of the occupants of the small village appeared content doing their morning's work out in the open air. The wickiups were reserved for sleeping only.

A mix of wood smoke, roasting wild elk, and baking bread wafted from the camp, hitting Arte's mind and stomach like a ton of bricks. Despite himself he was salivating. Of course Jim would manage to find a camp full of women, cooking the most delicious food Arte had ever smelled, and providing quaint, round little huts in which to sleep!

Shaking his head at the unbelievable luck of some men Arte turned to speak to Bowdeen but the man was no longer sitting next to him. With a jerk Arte searched the grassy knoll around him and found that he was in fact alone. Backing out of sight against the side of the steep hill that the trail descended Arte stood and whispered, "Bowdeen!"

Nothing. No horse, no Sheriff. Nada. With a growl of frustration Arte gave the village a final longing look, then dug the balls of his feet into the incline, climbing back up, harshly whispering the Sheriff's name. His chest was heaving by the time he got back to the dry waterfall. Certain that he was going to collapse at any minute, and wondering now if he hadn't been hallucinating the Sheriff's presence that whole time, Arte could find no sign of Bowdeen.

"This is maddening..." He gasped. He was seconds away from lying down, forgetting the whole thing and taking a nap, when he remembered that he had left his horse back down at the grassy overlook. Weathering a wave of dizziness Arte started back down the hill, feeling like a man of eighty years, forced to leave his death-bed to answer the door for the undertaker.

Further, by the time Arte got back to the overlook, his horse, and all the worldly possessions that the animal had been bearing, had disappeared.

He stood for a moment unable to respond to what his eyes were telling him before a fury born of no sleep, no food, and no relief began to build in his chest and head, fueling him into a rage. "Alright!" He growled loudly, his teeth gritting, his voice easily catching the attention of the handful of women tending to breakfast in the village below. "That's it! I've had it!"

Arte snatched his hat from his head and threw it at the ground, desperately wanting to grind it into the dirt, but restraining himself. "I'm done with this case. With this mountain." He shouted. "With this entire territory! I hope it NEVER becomes a state. And as for you, James West!"

His partner's last name echoed across the open valley and Arte vaguely registered that he had an audience. Every member of the small Ute family below had gathered just outside the village to watch and listen.

"You.." Arte ground out, jabbing his finger at the brush structures below him, "With your heart attack inducing disappearing acts, your 'don't worry Arte I've only split my skull' medical miracles, and every time I've taken one for the team just because you had to get the girl...this partnership is over!" He threw his hands out to the side and shouted, "Ended! Finito! I'm done."

Having made his declaration Arte bent to pick up his hat, planting it firmly on his head before he turned to trudge back up the hill.

"Don't you think you're overreacting just a little, Arte?"

The voice was weak, but familiar.

"Jim?"

Arte stared down at the small crowd of natives, his feet already starting him down the rest of the hill. He realized a second later that one of the Indians _wasn't _an Indian.

He'd been dressed in buckskins and his normally tanned face and dark hair had helped him to blend in with the group. He was on his feet, standing with the help of a teenaged boy, and looked like he might fall over at any minute but it was Jim West alright.

The man was smiling weakly at him as Arte approached, detaching himself from his escort in time for Artemus to catch him in a fierce hug.

Pushing Jim back so that he could get a better look, Arte felt his partner start to sag a little and jumped forward, catching him again and slipping a shoulder under Jim's left arm.

"You look terrible, what happened?"

"That's a...long story, Artemus."

"Huh, tell me about it..."

As they walked slowly back into the village Jim pointed out the wickiup that he had just come out of moments before. A stout Ute woman of indeterminable old age stood just outside the hut with her arms crossed looking ill-tempered and righteously indignant.

"Is that your nurse!?" Arte asked.

"Think so.." Jim answered concentrating on walking.

"How charming..." Arte cooed, doing his best to dim the broad smile, helping his friend back into the grass structure, and down onto an elk hide palate laid out on the ground.

The small structure had only about four feet of head room, but was wide enough in circumference for a man to lay flat on his back and still be fully enclosed. The temperature inside the hut was perfect. A soft breeze traveled through some of the gaps near the ground, and the rest of the brush covering held in the natural body heat of its inhabitants. It was dry and relatively clean given the number of layers of skins and blankets serving as a floor.

The place Jim had been laying was obvious. Various articles of religious or medicinal import lay in a perfect outline of his body atop a blanket made of rabbit skin. Just how much effort it had taken for Jim to rise, leave the wickiup and greet Arte at the edge of the village became clear when his partner settled limply back into place, looking as exhausted as Arte felt, already practically asleep.

Arte would have pulled away and left his partner in peace, if Jim hadn't kept hold of his forearm with a surprising grip.

"I'm glad you came, Arte." Jim said, shining eyes barely still open.

Arte settled into a sitting position beside the younger man, feeling some of the relief begin to wane, some of the worry returning. Jim was alive, but he was weak. Weaker than Arte ever remembered seeing him. Reaching his free hand out Arte felt for fever, finding a little heat coming from Jim's forehead and cheeks.

All of this had to be coming from the wound on Jim's arm. Under the loose sleeves of the buckskin tunic Arte could see a poultice bandage wrapped around the wounded wrist. The fingers on that hand had a healthy color, however, and weren't too swollen. Whatever the angry medicine woman had done, she had done it well.

Arte glanced over his shoulder to find the wizened crone glaring at him from a hunched position, obviously unwilling to enter the wickiup until Arte had left. Looking back to his partner's face Arte thought he might have already gone back to sleep, but when he tried to pull away Jim's eyes opened again, his grip still powerfully set.

"It's alright, Jim." Artemus said, smiling softly. He pulled Jim's hand from his arm, and pressed it against his own palm instead. "Hey, listen buddy, I haven't slept in over a day, and I gotta eat or I'm going start considering cannibalism myself. I think you've got some sleep coming to you too. What d'ya say we call it a night. Start up this...fascinating conversation in the morning, huh?"

After a few seconds of watching the gears turn slowly, Arte saw Jim smile, felt the hand in his own squeeze back, then go slowly lax. Jim began to snore softly and Arte carefully lowered his friend's hand to his chest before he backed slowly out of the wickiup.

As he stood, groaning at the various pains plaguing him, the grizzled old medicine woman stood with him, studying his face. At first Arte ignored the attention, thinking he was simply another white curiosity. A second later he realized she might have been considering him as her next patient and he took a step or two away from her, finally meeting her gaze.

They stared at each other until her face cracked. A line of tiny but whole teeth lined her bottom gums, peering out of her mouth as she began to wheeze rhythmically. Arte realized a second later that she was laughing.

Whatever was left of his normally abiding spirit was used up, not cursing and sneering at the woman. He managed an almost good-natured chuckle, then turned away. The simple, blanketed door to the wickiup shifted as the old woman went back in to her patient and Arte considered the village full of women and children that lay before him.

They had to be a hunting camp, the men off since before dawn stalking their prey, the women and young children going about the rest of the chores of the community. In a roughly made horse corral under a patch of trees Arte could see his horse and Jim's, both happily receiving the attention of a handful of teenage braves. He wondered if the Ute thought they had captured the horses, or realized that they were government property and would have to be eventually returned.

Further he wondered if he was a welcomed guest, and if the meat sizzling over the fire, or the bread made of wild grains and government wheat was for the whole community, or just insiders.

He was so hungry, so tired. The rollercoaster of emotions was testing him, and the shining lake, the bright greens and blues of the natural world around him, the breeze that gently kissed the air, the quiet peace of the village as a whole; it was almost overwhelming.

The lake especially, despite his recent aversion to large bodies of water, was a tempting vantage point, and Arte found himself tiredly trudging towards it. He found a sandy spot where part of a trunk had beached itself, and sat, leaning gratefully against the earthy softness of the bark. He had taken note of a familiar bird song, and considered the spot, any spot like this, a great place for a man to build a retirement home, when he closed his eyes and was instantly asleep.

* * *

The Ute village turned into a small piece of heaven for Artemus Gordon. After sleeping well into the afternoon hours, most of his slumber spent in one of the wickiups once one of the mothers of the tribe took pity on him and guided him into the small hut, Arte found himself the center of attention at one of the fire pits where he was given wild plums and berries, elk meat and a steaming, rounded loaf of fresh bread. He forced himself to eat slowly, savoring every bite. The occasional moan leaving his lips provided great entertainment for the children who helped themselves to his food from time to time, giggling when he would swipe at their hands, usually missing them.

He didn't care. There was more than enough food and he was contented and sleeping again through the rest of the afternoon and evening, not stirring until the following morning.

He felt a new man when he rose, going to the edge of the lake to slap water over his unshaven cheeks. From where he knelt he could see a small contingent of women in the distance, splashing and playing in the water well away from the village. The carefree, uninhibited laughter echoing in the still morning air pleased him. He was equally as happy to see his horse still in the corral and for the moment unattended. It took some time to locate his saddle, the saddle blanket and his bags. Grateful that he had thought to pack an extra shirt Arte changed into it before saddling his horse and walking the animal to the wickiup where Jim slept.

The medicine woman, Arte had come to realize, had some form of extra-sensory perception. Any time he had neared the hut in the past day and a half the woman seemed to know it, and would sweep her head out the simple door of the structure to watch Artemus approach. If he spoke a word to the woman he would get a cackling laugh in response. At first he had found the reaction infuriating and had forced his way into the wickiup to see Jim for himself.

That had earned him a beating about the head and shoulders, the crone whacking at him with a stick that he hadn't seen in time to avoid. He had however reassured himself that his partner still lived, and was resting comfortably. Since then he took the baffling woman's humor as a sign of good will and left it at that.

After getting his customary ribbing from the old woman, Arte gave her a gallant bow and a dazzling smile and mounted his horse. Riding up out of the valley Arte followed his memory of the travois trail until he had reached the toll road.

The sudden disappearance of Sheriff Bowdeen still bothered him. Assuming reality was as it seemed it was odd behavior for the man who had been determined up until that moment to find the missing Secret Service agent. Further, the discrepancies in Carlos Sanderson's character had been gnawing at Gordon's unconscious mind while he slept.

The ride back to Saguache was quiet and uneventful. Arte passed a small number of miners who ignored him. None of them were familiar to him as the men that had volunteered days ago.

The guards at the toll gate didn't appear all that surprised to see him either and let him pass, neither one asking for the requisite dollar. Their attention, up until Arte approached, had been focused on the Mears' Town jail, and returned there almost immediately. Arte could see why.

Several of the Sheriff's men stood outside the jail well armed, tensely surveying a crowd of Saguache locals that were milling about. A thrum of excitement and anger vibrating through their midst. The train station was just as busy with another crowd and several buggies parked nearby. The Wanderer wasn't the only train sitting at the station either. Several Hammond reefer cars, refrigerated box cars that were heavily insulated, sat idly behind a powerful Mallet locomotive. More of Bowdeen's deputies were guarding the cars, and even some of the miners appeared to have been temporarily deputized for the occasion.

The guarded cold cars gave Arte a sick feeling, the milling mob confirming it. Seeing Carlos Sanderson strut out of the jail house and mount his horse, made him instantly angry and Arte confronted the man, cutting off the beeline he was making for the toll road gate.

"You've got your news story right over there, Sanderson, you're headed the wrong way." Arte said, surprising the man.

"Mr. Gordon.." Carlos finally said, his tone careful as he settled back in his saddle. "So good to see you are not as equally lost as your partner."

Arte ignored the barb and demanded, "Who found the bodies, Carlos? Bowdeen? One of the miners?"

Sanderson laughed, enjoying knowing something that Arte didn't. "A photographer of all things, a _Harper's Weekly_ man. Was out in Slumgullion Pass when he happened across them. Gave him quite a fright."

So the bodies of Alfred Packer's alleged victims had been located. Slumgullion Pass wasn't a location familiar to him but Arte assumed it was a fair distance away from Saguache. It had to have been or the bodies would have been transferred overland to Mears' Town, instead of being preserved in reefers and hauled by rail. The familiar buggy parked near the station had to belong to the good Doctor Young.

"Where is he, this photographer?"

"Trying to find a working telegraph I would imagine. Seems there's been a spell of bad luck lately concerning communication with the outside world."

"So then I can assume, without a means to get your award-winning story out to the major newspapers you're...planning on going hunting?" Arte asked, looking pointedly at the vicious gun still strapped to Sanderson's saddle.

A cold smile that never got near Carlos' eyes sent a chill down Gordon's spine. "There is only one thing left to hunt in those mountains, Mr. Gordon. Care to join me?"

"Some other time..." Arte said finally, watching as the newspaperman paid his toll before disappearing down the mountain road.

Clucking his tongue Arte got his horse moving, cantering up to the jail and tying his reigns to the hitching post before he went inside. The crowd watched him expectantly but didn't try to follow.

Inside the front room of the jail Arte found Wyatt Sumner and another deputy hunched over a map, each with a rifle loosely held in hand. When the door opened both men snapped to attention, pointing their guns until they recognized the Secret Service agent.

"Mr. Gordon, you're alive!" Sumner breathed.

"Of course I'm alive." Arte snapped, wondering if his trip into the mountains with Bowdeen hadn't been a hallucination after all. "Where's the Sheriff?"

"Well he's gone after Packer." The other deputy said, as if it were common knowledge. "He escaped last night."

"Escaped!? From an escape-proof jail, he escaped!"

"O-one minute he was there in his cell..the next he was gone." Wyatt stuttered, looking for support from the older deputy before he continued.

"And now that Sanderson knows, that crowd outside will know and turn into a crazed mob."

"We told him not to tell anybody.." The other deputy in the room protested. Arte recognized him, but couldn't recall his name.

"He's a reporter, that's what reporters...do..." Arte cut himself off, a burst of energy hitting him, starting in his chest and flaming outward from there. "You, what's your name?"

"Joseph Killinger, sir."

"Killinger, have they identified the bodies? Confirmed the identities?"

Sumner piped up with, "That's what Doctor Young is doin' right now."

"Do you have a list of names...the..." Arte snapped his fingers, desperately searching for the word. "The confession. The names Packer gave for his victims?"

"Uh..yeah..." Joseph Killinger started hunting around under the map, then moved to a stack of leather-bound folders, picking through those until he produced a thick packet of paper bound by string.

The top paper showed the official charges, and listed the names of the victims that Packer had primarily admitted to killing and or eating.

"Shannon Wilson Bell, Israel Swan, James Humphrey, Frank 'Reddy' Miller, and..." With a triumphant laugh Arte smacked his fist into the pile of papers right under the final name on the list. The name he had expected to find. "And 18-year-old hotshot George 'California' Noon. The unwanted nephew of Mr. J. B. Chaffee."

The whole mess had solidified in his mind now, with only a few remaining loose ends.

His mind whirring Arte asked, "Gentleman, did Carlos Sanderson visit the jail last night?"

Both deputies looked at one another then answered in unison, "Yes."

"And was he still in the building when Packer escaped."

Again both of them nodded, "Yes."

"When did the Sheriff leave to search for the prisoner."

"First thing this morning." Wyatt Sumner said, his eyes becoming a little more keen.

Arte nodded, pacing, his fingers playing against his lips as he thought. He was certain of what was happening but he wouldn't have proof without Packer.

"In the past few days had Packer said anything to anyone, made any change to his original statement, or attempt to talk to Sanderson alone?"

"Packer's a nut case, Mr. Gordon." Killinger explained with concerned patience.

"He may be a cannibal and deeply rattled, but he is not a 'nut case' as you so delicately put it, Mr. Killinger. He is a scape goat, and if he is not found soon, he'll be dead scape goat."


	9. Chapter 9

It took Gordon twenty minutes to get to The Wanderer, grab two rifles, shells, his gun belt and a handful of inventive goodies from the arsenal. He packed the various explosives carefully in his saddle bags, shoved one of the rifles into the boot hanging from his saddle and carried the other in the crook of his elbow as he mounted and approached the toll road. Once through the gate he gave a nod to Wyatt Sumner, who stood outside the jail carrying out the orders Arte had given him. The young man gave him a grim smile in return before refocusing on his duties.

A good kid, Arte thought as he turned to the guards at the gate.

"This toll road will remained closed until further notice."

Both gaurds looked at each other, one of them laughing. "Says who?"

Arte smiled at them quietly until they started to shift uncomfortably. "President Grant, gentlemen." He said before kicking his horse up to a gallop.

He was very aware of the trail around him this time. Every ledge was a handy spot to hide, or an even handier spot to shoot from. He tried to put himself into the mindset of Packer. Did he know? Did he think it was only the local law chasing him, or did he know that Sanderson was after him too. Arte still wasn't even sure if Bowdeen could be trusted. The Sheriff had made a point of telling Arte he didn't trust the reporter, but it could have just as easily been a ploy. The bottom line was that Packer had escaped, somehow, from an escape proof jail. He had help. Arte didn't know how much.

The possibility of having two rifles pointed at him, or running across a paranoid, man-eating escaped prisoner, kept Arte tense the whole way to the Ute hunting village. By the time he left the toll road and had passed the dead waterfall he was certain too much time had gone by. Bowdeen and Sanderson had a huge head start in the grisly manhunt.

The Ute in the valley didn't seem surprised to see him. Arte kept the reins with him as he dismounted, walking his horse through the camp, just in case someone felt the need to appropriate the animal if he left it unattended again. Par for the course the medicine woman stuck her head out of the wickiup as Arte approached. He waited for the peal of laughter, but it didn't come. A sickening feeling went through him.

Arte ducked toward the entrance of the hut, ignoring the medicine woman's sudden protests, prepared to weather the storm and force his way inside again when he heard Jim's voice.

"A man decides to go for a simple walk-"

Standing under his own power, a blanket wrapped around his shoulders, Jim waited just behind him, barefooted, in the sand.

Arte took a deep breath to calm his racing pulse. "Jim." He sighed, reassuring himself before his tone changed. "Jim we..have a situation. Here, do you need to sit down somewhere?"

West shook his head, looking instantly focused. "What is it, Arte.."

"I figured it out...some of it anyway."

As quickly and succinctly as possible, Gordon explained his trip to Denver and who he had discovered J. B. Chaffee to be.

"Chaffee is a founder of the city of Denver and a huge advocate of statehood." Arte said, starting to tick the information off on his fingers. "He's connected himself to Washington via Grant's son. He's got to have his eyes on a position in the senate at the very least. Having a nephew trying to make a reputation for himself as a gunslinger in California must have looked like a major threat to his otherwise sparkling political career. I think Chaffee, or someone looking to support his move to Washington, ordered his nephew killed."

At that Jim did sit, perching on a small log that, like several others around the camp, was meant for exactly that purpose. "Arte...don't you think that's a little far-fetched?"

Arte nodded, finding his own log and dragging it closer to his partner. "I did, yes. Up until a posse of armed carriages opened fire on The Wanderer at the Denver Depot."

"What!?"

"They tore the parlor car apart, Jim. If I hadn't been on the platform at the time..." Arte shook his head, remembering the noise, the adrenaline, the certainty of death that didn't hit him until they had cleared Denver. "We barely made it back to Saguache. If merely showing interest in Chaffee's nephew set off a chain reaction that ended with me as a target? No, Jim, this is murder. And I think Carlos Sanderson is the killer."

"Sanderson, the reporter?"

"He has a high-powered rifle with a scope that he never leaves home without. Most reporters wield a pen, Jim." Arte paused, then added somberly. "The body's have been found, probably a few days ago, in a place called Slumgullion Pass."

"That's almost 80 miles away, a hundred miles by rail."

Arte smirked. "When I arrived in Mears' Town this morning there were two reefer cars at the station. Our good friend Doctor Young presiding as local coroner. I didn't get a chance to look at the bodies but ten to one each one of them died of a gunshot wound. Chaffee's nephew was definitely among them."

Jim considered for a moment before he started to shake his head, "The gunshot wounds can be corroborated through Packer's confession."

"Convenient...don't you think?" Arte waited as Jim's eyes sparked, a finger poking out of the blanket.

"So you think Sanderson murdered all five men to avoid having Chaffee's nephew look like the target, then set Packer up as the only suspect and sent him on his merry way."

"Something like that, yeah." Arte grinned.

"Where is Sanderson now?"

The grin waned. "That's why I'm here. Packer escaped, I think with Sanderson's help. Maybe Carlos thought Packer was going to spill, or maybe this was part of the plan all along, but Sanderson took the toll road almost an hour ago. Bowdeen is out here somewhere too. He apparently left to look for Packer earlier this morning."

"Did you bring my rifle?"

"Yes, but Jim..." Arte stood as Jim did, watching his partner brush the blanket from his shoulders.

"Don't worry about it Arte, I'm fine."

"How about I ask your nurse about that?"

Jim smirked at him and slapped a hand against Arte's chest. "She kicked me out this morning, good buddy. Come on."

Finding Jim's saddle, boots and gun belt proved to be as much of a challenge as finding Arte's had been. By the time they were done they had a crowd of giggling children to see them off. Once Jim's black was ready for travel Gordon watched his partner carefully as he mounted. He knew it was early yet, that a fever could keep a man down for weeks and the energy Jim felt would be short-lived. But as much as he hated the danger it put him in, Arte needed his partner with him. Going alone would have been too fool hardy to consider.

"So where do we start?" Jim called, riding behind Arte as they raced up the hill out of the valley.

"When the Sergeant delivered Packer he had a sack over his head. It stands to reason he isn't familiar with the area." Arte offered before they paused where the trail to the Ute village met the toll road. "If he's on this road, it has to be because Sanderson suggested it."

"Right, and Sanderson be here unless he expected to find Packer here."

Arte sighed, scanning the area. The sun was almost at its zenith, making it a little after noon. "If you didn't know who to trust and you were stuck on this road where would you hide?"

Jim thought for a minute then shrugged, "In the mines."

"And if no one had seen your face you just might be able to blend in with the other miners. The toll road guards wouldn't have let a man in a striped suit through, but another miner would be next to invisible."

"Which way, Arte?"

Arte looked to the left then right, trying to remember the mine entrances he had already passed. Most of them had been active. It was a fifty fifty chance, and Arte's gut was telling him he hadn't passed Sanderson yet. He nodded to the right and said, "We go north, Mr. West."

* * *

Each of the mines along Old Man Mears' toll road had been named. Some of the names were traditional, "Old Man's Cave", "Silver Nugget", and "Deep Well". Unimaginative but serving their purpose. Under the name's of the mines were the names of the owners, usually only one or two at the most. The further down the road one traveled the more bizarre and clever the names one would find. "Clementine Mine", "Yellow Rows of Texas Mine", and even one bearing only the word "All". The name of the owner had since been painted over and boards crossed over the entrance had been painted with black letters that read, "Danger! Collapsed Shaft!".

Set back off the trail, the deserted mine seemed especially suited for a man on the run. A pair of distinct boot prints led up to the entrance until the earth became stone, and at least one of the boards had been loosened.

Dismounting the two secret service agents stepped up to the entrance and into a cool mist of moist air. They could hear water dripping in the depths of the cavern, echoing along a simple, nature carved tunnel that had then been expanded by man, and shored up with heavy timbers.

They could only see a few feet into the shaft however and Jim made a "the honor is yours" gesture before drawing his gun and stepping away from the boards. Arte tipped his head in acknowledgement and did the same, before he took in a breath and hollered, "Alfred Packer. This is Artemus Gordon of the United States Secret Service. You are under arrest sir. Come out...unarmed, and you won't be hurt!"

They waited, listening for the sounds of a man cowering in fear, or running for his life, or really anything at all moving in the damp darkness.

"Maybe he's busy..." Jim offered quietly, scanning the canyon walls around them quickly, before looking back to the featureless opening of the mine.

"I just hope he's not hungry..." Arte muttered, reaching up a hand to test the strength of the thin and rotting wood. Judging from the rust on the bolts the mine had been closed off for at least a year if not longer. "Clever man for a prospector..." Arte said, pointing at the one word name.

"All Mine..." Jim said aloud then chuckled. "Even if Packer was here, Arte, Sanderson isn't."

"Good point." Arte said, noticing now the lack of a second pair of boot prints outside of his and Jim's. "Shall we go?"

Before Arte could walk away he felt something patter against the shoulder of his coat. He brushed at the cloth without looking, then jerked his hand back when he felt wet warmth on his finger tips. Blood stained his hand, and had soaked instantly into his jacket in three large drops.

Arte backed away from the cave entrance and looked straight up to find the sole of a boot sticking out of a clump of overhanging branches ten feet above their heads. "Oh no.." Arte muttered, searching the walls around them for a way to climb up to the shelf above the mine. A narrow winding cleft to the right of the mine entrance provided a graveled incline and Arte started up it even as Jim retrieved his horse and mounted, moving the animal under the conspicuous shoe.

Slipping on the unstable surface of the incline, Arte made slower progress than he liked, clinging to the rough rock and using stubborn vines and clumps of sage where he could. Before long the steep grade forced him to lay flat against the mountain side, crawling up like a sloth.

The ledge directly above the mine entrance was only two feet wide, and slanted downward. But for a small amount of dirt giving purchase to the brush that grew there, Arte saw nothing that would keep him from sliding to the ground at an accelerated rate.

Worse still, "Jim...there's no body."

Arte watched as the bush in front of him rattled and shook, then heard Jim's quiet grunt below.

"It's just a boot!" Jim said, guiding his horse back until he could see Artemus above the lip of the cave mouth.

Arte stared open mouthed at the men's snake skin boot in Jim's hands, then twisted his neck to see the drops of red still staining his coat. He looked around him, pushing with his knees and pulling with his elbows to gain a little more elevation, reaching out for the gnarled, flat trunk of a Bristlecone pine. The base of the trunk was at a ninety-degree angle to the rock wall, the rest of it growing straight up in the air. Hooking his right hand around the left edge of the oddly shaped trunk, Arte found a solid foot hold, wrapped his left hand around the same side of the trunk and pulled, gaining two feet in half a second.

"Found the rest of him..." He called down after swallowing around a sudden rise of bile. "It's Bowdeen." Arte's arms were starting to shake, and he was searching for a place to put his right foot, his eyes focused on the chest of what very well could have been a corpse. There was blood, a small channel had been cut into the loose dirt by the flow coming from Bill Bowdeen's lower half. Somehow it had managed to drip all the way down to the mouth of the cave and on to Arte's shoulder. That much blood lost had to mean Bowdeen was dead and yet as Arte watched he could swear he saw the man breathe.

Desperate now more than ever to find a solid step up, Arte lowered himself a little, giving his left leg a short reprieve before he used the three points available to him to hoist himself back up again, this time hooking his left elbow around the flat trunk of the pine. He was searching for another hand hold, his feet swinging against the loose rock, when he heard Jim's, "Arte?"

He didn't respond, a little too focused on defying gravity. His foot finally caught on what felt like a root and he pushed up, swinging his right hand out and catching the other side of the crescent moon shaped trunk. Now, he thought, he looked more like a giant squirrel than a sloth. A branch just a few centimeters out of his reach presented itself above his head and Arte eyed it, his left foot still searching for a hold. When he bent his left leg he found he could fit his knee into a well created by one of the tree's protruding roots. He took a deep breath, pressed down on his knee, grabbed the branch and swung his right foot over the back of the trunk and onto level ground.

The rest of his body followed and he slumped into a crouch behind the wide trunk of the pine, catching his breath. Letting his eyes refocus on the body of the Sheriff, Arte watched the man's head shift, then cant, nearly closed eyes focusing on the Secret Service agent turned mountain goat. "He's alive, Jim!" Arte shouted down to his partner once he had breath enough to do so.

A second later a rock exploded behind Arte's right shoulder, peppering the back of his neck with shards of stone. As the sound of the first shot echoed across the canyon, a second shot plowed a hole into the trunk just above Arte's head. Arte crouched as low as he could get, feeling himself start to slide as he shifted. Before the echo of the second shot died, dirt and rocks were being tossed in the air around the Sheriff's body, one of the bullets grazing the man's thigh, extracting a weak groan.

Below him Arte barely caught the sound of a horse galloping away, the pop and whine of bullets louder and more pressing. He couldn't see where the fire originated but the delay between the impact of the rounds and the cough of the gun indicated the shooter was a good distance away. Only a man with a scope and an elongated, rifled barrel could make those shots. He had no doubt who was trying to kill him.

Three more bullets splashed into the ground around him, tossing dust and wood chips into the air before there was a reprieve. Arte felt the break, more than he heard it, and shoved himself to his hands and knees, scrambling hard over the rocky swell. He reached the Sheriff's body, taking note of the patches of blood on his shoulder, side and hip. Arte swept his gaze quickly across the ground around him. There was very little cover. The spot where the Sheriff had fallen was exposed to two rock walls rising gradually to Arte's left, open air and a nearby peak 700 yards to his right.

A puff of smoke appeared like a disrupted dandelion against the distant cone of rock and was filtered by the breeze, the only warning Arte got before the hail of bullets began again. Arte yanked his gun from its holster but knew that his handgun wouldn't have the range to do any damage. Bullets were smacking into the ground, sending sand and shards at his eyes and Arte holstered his gun, sank his fists into Bowdeen's vest and tugged, dragging the man blindly away toward the rock walls, keeping as low to the ground as possible. A second later a group of fledgling ponderosa pines, twenty feet below where Arte had spotted the shooter, exploded in a burst of brilliant flame and smoke.

Arte halted his retreat, caught the arch of a second propelled explosive, and whooped loudly as it impacted the side of the peak about ten feet closer to the target. Sanderson, now on the run, disappeared quickly behind better cover, but it didn't last. Jim's aim was smack on this time and the next explosive would've landed in Sanderson's lap if the man hadn't jumped. Arte caught flashes of a body tumbling down the rocky slope, the glint of the sun on a well oiled gun barrel, then there was nothing but dust, rolling rocks and sudden silence.

Judging where Jim had to be based on the path that the projectile bombs took, Arte stared at the curve of the mountain until Jim's head popped out into the open. He had a rifle in one hand, still more explosives in the other, and crossed the rolling ground between himself and Arte with a trudging gate. However Jim had managed to get up the mountain, it had taxed him.

Gordon pushed himself to his knees and turned his attention to Bowdeen. The man was still breathing, gasping in short, punctuated breaths. The wound on his shoulder was high enough that it couldn't have affected the man's lungs, but he was deathly pale. The hole in his hip had bled more than the hole in his side, but there was so much blood soaking the man's clothing it wouldn't have mattered.

Arte gently searched the man's pockets, finding a kerchief that he folded into a tight square and pressed against the wound on Bowdeen's shoulder, under the shirt and jacket. The Sheriff groaned weakly in response.

"That's right, Bowdeen. You moan and you groan. That's the only thing that'll keep you from being accidentally buried alive." Arte encouraged softly, guiding the Sheriff's left arm up, instructing him to hold the compress in place. Arte waited until the weak man complied before searching his own pockets to come up with another compress. He was forcing a second cloth against the wound on the Sheriff's hip, when he heard gravel crunch several feet away.

"How are ya feelin, Jim?" He called, unable to look up and see for himself.

"Pretty good, Mr. Gordon, for having been blown up and tossed down a mountain. How'd you know my real name was Jim?"


	10. Chapter 10

Arte froze at the sound of Carlos Sanderson's voice. "Lucky guess.." He said carefully, making sure the compress was still in place before he moved both his hands into sight.

"I have to say, I had never heard of the Secret Service until you and Mr. West came along. I am deeply impressed at your dedication to your duties." Sanderson shifted, the metal parts of the heavy rifle rattling confirming Arte's assumption that he was at gunpoint. "I certainly didn't expect the kind of ordinance your partner was using earlier. I'd ask you for the name of your manufacturer but I get the feeling he'll be yet another government agent, and I try to avoid doing regular business with ruling powers."

"Oh he works for the government, alright." Arte muttered.

"Yes, you lot do tend to stick together."

Arte couldn't place the accent. When he'd first met Sanderson, he'd pegged him as a California man, but there were hints of Chicago, New York, New Orleans and Texas mixed in that changed with every word the man spoke. A con man or an actor, depending on the profit he sought, always recognized another in his line of work. The only difference, Arte thought, was that Sanderson killed for his living.

"You know the Sheriff was quite a man. He tracked Packer all the way to that mine, then climbed up above the entrance and waited for me. Can you believe it, he ambushed my ambush!"

"I always knew there was more to him than met the eye." Arte moved his hands up to the Sheriff's shoulder under the guise of checking the wound there. He had hoped to find the Sheriff's side arm still in its holster, on the man's hip, but the leather sleeve was empty.

"I don't know where he hid Alfred, but he being a suspected criminal and you being a law man, I figure you'll be more than happy to help me look for him." Arte didn't respond, still trying to figure a way out. He was certain he wouldn't get to his gun in time. The stall irritated Sanderson and his tone was deeper and angrier as he said, "You've done as much as you can for the poor Sheriff there, why don't you get off your knees. Looks like that might be painful."

Arte pulled one foot up underneath him and finally lifted his gaze. The gun barrel was just out of grabbing range, held loosely balanced in Sanderson's right hand. The hammer hadn't been pulled back yet, giving him something of a chance.

Sanderson looked rough. His clothing torn, bloody from his fall. There was a trickle of crimson rolling down the right side of his face, a head injury. Might mean his judgment was off a little.

Arte started to push up, then winced, acting as though his knee were weak and putting both hands back on the ground. He dug deep with his fingertips, grabbed as much gravel and dirt as he could and flung it up into Sanderson's face before launching forward in a low tackle, under the barrel of the gun and into Sanderson's legs.

They both went down in a struggling heap, Sanderson landing on top of him. Arte thought he saw the rifle bounce off to the side and grappled desperately for the upper hand, sinking punches into whatever flesh he could find. Sanderson didn't put up with it for long, and Arte felt a bony fist pop against his lower back, stunning him before the taught, sinewy muscle of one of Sanderson's arms closed around his throat.

In seconds Arte's airway had practically been cut off. He flung his elbows back, felt them impact somewhere on Sanderson's rib cage, and thought he felt the satisfying rush of air coming out of his assailant's lungs, but the grip didn't loosen, and his vision was starting to swim.

Arte tried to twist his head, aiming his chin for the crook of Sanderson's elbow before he brought the heels of both hands hard up against Sanderson's arm. His last desperate attempt broke the man's hold. Air rushed back into his lungs, blood pounding painfully in his head, but just as quickly another fist sank into his back above his kidney. Arte went to his knees, desperately crawling away, too dizzy to stand or run.

He heard Sanderson scrambling after him and rolled over onto his back, getting his feet up in time to plant them in Sanderson's chest and propel him away. His back aching, Arte slapped his hand down onto his holster, still gasping for air, his vision wavering between darkness and light, when he heard _blam, blam, blam blam blam._

Sanderson danced under the pull of the bullets then fell on his side, his body stiffening once before he went lax.

Putting a hand gently to the bruised and swelling skin of his throat Arte swallowed, winced, and rolled carefully onto his side, pushing himself slowly to his knees. His hat lay two feet to his left and he reached for it, gingerly placing it back on his head as he heard his partner approaching. Getting to his feet Arte bent to brush the dust from his pant legs, one hand against the sore spot on his back. He straightened the collar of his coat carefully then turned to face Jim.

Arte pointed to the body then croaked, "I had him you know."

Confused Jim cocked his head to the side, then looked down at the five bullet holes in the center of Sanderson's back.

"_You _had him." Jim said, his lower lip sticking out as he nodded. "Was that when your face was going red in the middle of that choke hold, or before that when he had you empty-handed at gun point."

His fingers testing the tender skin above his hip bone, Arte winced, then threw his hands out. "During all of it. The whole fight. Had him right where I wanted him."

"And where was that?"

"Alive...so that he could answer questions."

"Before or...after he killed you?" Jim asked, as if just clarifying an unimportant side note to the conversation.

Arte gave a non-committal shake of the head in response, then eyed Jim. "You alright?"

West nodded wearily, looking to where Bowdeen lay. "Tired. What about him?"

Arte moved gingerly back to where the Sheriff lay, and placed his hand lightly on the man's chest. When it rose and fell with the intake of air Arte checked the man's pulse. "Slow and thready, breathing still. He can't sit a horse, and moving him at all might cause him to bleed out."

"Well if you can't get the patient to the medicine woman..."

Arte grinned up at his partner and nodded. "Bring the medicine woman to the patient. How _did _ you get up here, anyway?"

Jim threw a thumb over his shoulder. "Before we reached the mine earlier I noticed a set of steps that looked like they had been carved into the rock. I figured they had to lead somewhere."

"You took one hell of a chance, Jim, I coulda been killed."

"Yeah but Arte...you had him right where you wanted him, remember?"

* * *

After collecting some supplies from the horses Arte stayed with the Sheriff while Jim rode to the Ute hunting village, to persuade and ferry the medicine woman to the mountain top.

Once he had made the Sheriff comfortable, Arte built a fire then considered the body of Carlos Sanderson. He had claimed his real name was James. Arte wondered what would end up on his tombstone.

He searched the man's pockets finding a handful of bills, extra rounds for the rifle and a small leather-bound book. The pages of the book were blank but for the first dozen, which were filled with pencil jottings that didn't make sense to him. Numbers with no appreciable pattern, letters that might have represented people or places or racing horses for all he knew. It was, however, the closest thing to a clue that he expected to find.

He checked the lining of Sanderson's coat, his cuffs, the insides of his boots, and finally his hat. In the lining there he found a wedding ring. A man's simple gold band with no inscription. Arte put the bullets, book, ring and money in Sanderson's overturned hat, then rolled the body in a spare blanket.

If they could get the killer's body to the reefer cars by the next morning he could be preserved, photos could be taken, and hopefully some day he would be properly identified.

As the first hour turned into a second hour, and then a third, Arte hunted down more firewood. He had already emptied his canteen, sharing the water with Bowdeen whom he wakened every half hour. He was desperately thirsty. His back pained him and his throat felt broken and raw, like he might have been developing a cold. He searched the area for a source of water, and found none, then remembered the dripping that he and Jim had heard in the mine below.

Jim had left him with a coil of rope that Arte had used to secure the blanket around Sanderson's body. Not willing to leave Bowdeen long enough to walk all the way to Jim's stairs, and back, Arte decided going down the way he had come up was the next best option.

He retrieved the rope and carefully approached the Bristlecone pine that marked the edge of the small plateau. It wasn't more than a fifteen foot drop, but still enough of a distance to make the rope necessary. Tying the line to the base of the tree, with his canteen strapped over his shoulder, Arte descended slowly, keeping the rope curled loosely around his left arm as he picked his way down.

Other than a slip on the loose stones near the bottom he made it to level ground without problems and looked to the dark entrance of the mine. Without a lantern or any other source of light Arte knew he wouldn't be able to go very deep into the shaft, but with no other choice he had to try.

He was not, however, going to go in completely guileless. After sweeping the rope over the brush so that it hung almost straight down from the base of the Bristlecone pine, Arte judged that he had about 30 extra feet of rope. Tying the end around his waist, he decided he would go as deep into the shaft as the rope would allow and no further.

He smirked again at the title of the mine, noticing once more the proprietor's name that had been painted over. He would have to check the records in town to see who once owned the property. It would at the least satisfy his curiosity, and at the most provide him with some idea as to why Packer chose it. Wherever Packer was.

Arte reminded himself that the man could very well be still inside the mine.

Stepping carefully around the boards Arte sniffed at the cooler air in the shaft and felt along the walls of both sides of the entrance. They were damp but he could feel no running water. He took a few cautious steps forward working his way into the pitch black of the mine. At each step he checked the walls, straining his ears for noises.

Developing a pattern of movement Arte shuffled his feet forward, then checked the walls, finding them more and more damp as he progressed, but no perceivable running water.

He was surprised a few minutes later when his hand reached out to feel cold rock, and he instead encountered sanded wood. Now essentially totally blind Arte spread his hands out over a two foot by two foot square of hardwood with beveled edges, fingering several lines of text etched into the surface.

The first two words were "Here Lies"; the others were etched more intricately and were indecipherable without a point of reference. The board had been firmly fastened to the wall, or rather to a support beam, Arte realized, exploring above and below the plaque.

"My kingdom for a lantern..." Arte mumbled, his voice, even as soft as it was, echoing easily in the empty darkness. From where he stood he could still see the light of day coming from the entrance, but it did nothing to dispel the gloom ahead.

Reaching to his waist, Arte rechecked his knot, then collected the rope judging that he had gone in about 18 feet and had 12 to go.

He had begun to think that he was going to have a long dry wait ahead of him, nothing he couldn't survive, but Bowdeen needed the water. He might have asked Jim to leave his canteen as well, but that was robbing a sick Peter to pay a wounded Paul.

"Here lies..." A second later the implication of the inscription hit him. Someone had died in the mine shaft, and he would've bet his salary that it was the previous owner. A mine that swallowed its caretaker and benefactor would be a haunted place in the eyes of most men, and would explain why the shaft hadn't been reclaimed or worked in over a year.

Arte had just begun wondering how the unfortunate soul had died when he felt the ground go spongy and soft under his right foot. One moment he was on uncertain ground, the next he was falling. His flailing right arm hit the lip of the hole, his left clamping around the rope seconds before it pulled taut, digging hard into his chest and back. Caught up short, he swung knees first into the walls of the hole he had fallen into, the rope constricting around his rib cage. He let out a strangled cry, then fell silent, grabbing desperately at the rope to relieve some of the pressure, concentrating once more on getting air into his lungs.

As the swinging slowed Arte was able to use the side walls of the hole to help support himself. The rock he encountered wasn't terribly solid, and he realized why when his breathing calmed a little more and he could make out the trickle of water. The very force that he had hoped to find, to save a life, had nearly cost him his own.

A process probably begun thousands of years ago had finally weakened solid rock, creating a large hole under the surface. Whoever owned the "All Mine" had likely met his demise falling into this very abyss. A deep chasm that inexplicably opened one day, and swallowed a man whole.

With both hands around the rope Arte was able to relieve some of the pressure on his rib cage. With his feet he kicked away bits of crumbling rock until he found a solid foot hold, then another. Pulling on the rope with his arms, and kicking out with his legs he was able to gain a few feet upward before he had to rest. There wasn't much to rest on but Arte paused long enough to get his breathing under control, before he began again.

He was close enough to the lip of the hole to see the faintest glow of daylight when he kicked out his feet and encountered nothing but slick, cold mud. His foot slipped, all of his weight suddenly falling on his arms and he felt the rope slip, burning his palms even as he was forced to strengthen his grip to stop the downward slide.

When he finally came to a stop he kicked his feet out and found a narrow ledge of solid rock that would allow both of the balls of his feet. He stood up on the ledge, once more allowing his arms a small reprieve, but he didn't dare let go of the rope with either hand.

Leaning his head against the coarse line Arte allowed himself time to breathe.

"Jim..." he thought aloud. "The next time one of your brilliant ideas lands us in the soup, I swear, on the grave of my sainted and dear Aunt Maude, I won't say a word."

His hands were slick now, with sweat Arte hoped, but more likely with blood. He knew he didn't have the strength in his arms for another climb. Even with his feet on the ledge he could feel himself loosing ground a centimeter at a time.

This would be the moment, he thought, for Jim's famous timing to kick in. He tried to imagine his partner arriving on the mountain top with the medicine woman, finding Arte gone and then noticing the rope pulled taut against the base of the Bristlecone pine.

"Just follow the rope, Jim my boy, and you'll find the prize. One human piñata."

One more try, he told himself, looking upward to the ever dimmer glow of the sun. Just one more try, Artemus.

Gritting his teeth Arte pulled with his arms, shifted his right leg up, then his left, pushed with his legs, pried his hands from the rope, gripped again and pulled with his arms.

The second time through it seemed a little easier. Like he had gained a few more feet than he thought he had. He was moving his legs, kicking out to find new purchases when his whole body ascended, rope and all.

No doubt about it, someone was on the other end of the line.

"Jim!?" Arte called out happily, the relief of rescue lending him an extra burst of strength that he used to pull himself up the rope a half a foot. He kicked out his feet, felt the mud, then his hands were brushing against dirt, granules of it were being scraped up by his cuffs and then he was back on solid ground, crawling forward on his knees before he keeled over. He pried his hands away from the rope, tucked the clawed appendages against his stomach and closed his eyes, letting his gratefulness to be alive flood over him.

He would worry about explaining how he had fallen blindly down a hole later.

He heard the footsteps approach and was opening his eyes, a smile of undying gratitude on his lips, only to have powerful hands grasp the lapels of his jacket and start dragging him across the floor of the shaft.

Arte tried to grab at the man's wrists, but his hands were almost useless. He kicked out with his feet, trying to create extra friction and slow the man down. His efforts gained him an angry grunt from his benefactor and a whiff of the most rancid breath he'd ever before encountered, before the man got a better grip and went right back to dragging.

Arte crooked his wrists over top of the hands clutching his coat, using the man's own strength as leverage to get his feet under him, before he reared back, breaking the man's hold and backing a few steps away.

They were nearly to the cave entrance and the unknown man was silhouetted against the light. A very thin man for how strong he was.

Arte's struggle seemed to have dissuaded the other for the time being and he stood watching Gordon warily.

Arte swallowed, his hands still frozen in position and aching, the raw welts that the rope had created around his rib cage throbbing. As he stared at his rescuer he was overwhelmed by the most peculiar feeling. He felt as though he were staring at a man from another century. The feeling came to him, and remained until he had found a way to define it, before it dissipated, leaving him with the only question left to ask.

"Alfred Packer?"

After a moment Arte watched the silhouette of the King of Cannibals nod quietly.

"You're under arrest."


	11. Chapter 11

It was close to six in the afternoon before Jim managed to get himself and his entourage to the stairway. The Ute had a word for it that translated roughly into Stairway to the Ancestors. Jim figured that was as good a name as any.

With a young girl, about 6-years-old, seated in the saddle in front of him, two twenty-something girls, and one in her teens, following closely behind his horse focused on the elk skin travois they were carrying, and the Ute medicine woman herself seated on Arte's horse bringing up the rear, they had made slow, gradual progress from the Ute camp. Unfortunately they were heeded further when they were forced to stop every time the medicine woman hollered.

Each time Jim would dismount, help the medicine woman down, then wait for her to pluck whatever plant she had noticed, scoop a handful of dried bones, or scrape bark off of one tree or another, before he helped her back on the horse, mounted his own and the parade would start again.

It had taken hours. Hours that Jim wasn't sure Bowdeen had.

He had tried too many times to explain this to the medicine woman but she either didn't understand, or pretended she didn't understand, and kept doing what she was doing.

Jim was grateful to catch a whiff of the campfire smoke once they were atop the plateau. It gave him just a little hope that Bowdeen was still alive.

When he topped the final rise, he caught sight of the fire, Bowdeen's prone form next to it, and Sanderson's dead body wrapped in a blanket. He shouted, "Arte!" and saw his partner's head pop up from behind a line of bushes near one of the rock walls.

"Hey, Jim! Be right with ya!" Arte shouted in response, then disappeared again behind the bush. A few minutes later he walked out into the open, carrying an armload of firewood, and Jim nearly fell from his horse.

From head to foot Artemus Gordon was covered in gray dust. His knees to his ankles were splashed with mud. Both hands were wrapped with strips of cloth around his palms and his shirt sleeves had been torn off at the elbows.

The little girl seated in front of Jim started to giggle and Jim tilted in the saddle to look at her delighted face before he turned back to his partner. He shook his head. "I leave him alone for a couple of hours..."

With a jolt he realized further that there was another person in camp, when a body sat up on the opposite side of Bowdeen, hands tied together and bound to his feet. The bindings wouldn't cause discomfort, but would prevent the man from running, though he didn't seem terribly interested in doing it at the time.

"What happened?" Jim asked as he slow walked his horse into the camp, seeing more and more tears and bruises on Arte's person the closer he got. Further he hadn't judged the dust to be thick enough. In some places there had to be at least two layers.

"Well, I found Packer and uh..went spelunking." Arte offered, stepping up to his partner's horse, moving his shoulder under the animal's neck as he patted its coat in greeting.

Jim dismounted then reached his hands up for the little girl, letting her down. The minute her feet touched the ground she ran off for the bushes that she had seen Arte behind earlier and disappeared.

Both men watched her run before turning to watch the rest of the parade straggle in.

"You know I was beginning to wonder if you hadn't decided to bring the entire village with you..."

"No, but I have brought her entire family. That, Arte, is Dark Cloud Woman." Jim said, pointing to the medicine woman who rode Arte's horse at a slow pace, in a regal fashion. "Those three are her granddaughters White Feather, Hunched Falcon, and Blue Water Woman." Jim introduced each one, pointing to the youngest last.

"How do you know that?"

"One of the braves returned to the village, he spoke some English."

"Oh. And the little one."

"She doesn't have a name yet. At least not a permanent name. I've been callin' her Squirt."

Even as she was being spoken of, Squirt came running back from the bushes. She slowed her pace when she saw the two men in conversation, then quietly insinuated herself between Jim and Arte, leaning on Jim's leg casually as if she had been there the whole time.

"She seems to like you."

"She'd like you better if you were clean..." Jim said, before he reached out to one of Arte's bandaged hands and turned it over to look at his palm. Just under the edge of the cloth he could see the angry red mark.

"Ya know I hope you brought plenty of water with you, Jim. There's none on this plateau."

"We've got enough for tonight." Jim said.

A quiet voice between them spoke in Ute and both men looked down to find Squirt focused on Arte's hands. With careful, miniature fingers the young girl cradled Arte's hand, palm up, in her own, putting her nose close to the bandage.

Arte gave Jim a look but didn't say anything as Squirt let go of his left hand, then circled around to get at his right. She sniffed that one too, then started poking fingers in the holes in Arte's shirt.

Jim smirked at Arte's confused expression as Squirt continued her appraisal, picking at the mud on Arte's trousers, then standing in front of the man with her hands on her hips, looking up at his stubbled face.

She spoke in Ute, this time pointing a finger straight down. After a moment of hesitation Arte carefully sank to his knees in front of the child and stayed perfectly still as she placed both hands on either side of his face and used her thumbs to widen his eyes. While she canted his head to one side or the other, Arte spoke through compressed cheeks. "Is she Dark Cloud Woman's apprentice...or am I simply more peculiar looking than usual..?" He rolled his eyes up, trying to see Jim, but the minute his focus left her, Squirt jerked his face in her hands, demanding his full attention once again. When Arte looked back he couldn't help but smile. His cheeks fought the little girl's grip and his eyes crinkled, and Squirt grinned back, giggling softly.

"I'll take her for a nurse any day." Arte said.

"Yeah, I know what you mean, Arte." Jim said, smiling at his partner before he watched Dark Cloud's granddaughters set the travois next to Bowdeen. Without a word of communication with the medicine woman the three girls started pulling articles of clothing away from the wounds, then off Bowdeen's body entirely. The process, which had to be exceedingly painful for the wounded man, jostled him awake finally and Jim watched as his head swayed back and forth, taking in the faces of the young natives. Jim was very surprised when Blue Water Woman placed her hands against Bowdeen's face and kissed his forehead. Even more so when Bowdeen's good arm rose, curling around the young girl's shoulders.

"Hey, Arte?"

"Yeah?"

"What's Bowdeen doing?"

After Squirt had finished investigating Arte's face she had moved back to his hands, insisting on removing the hasty bandages Arte had wrapped around the raw skin. Arte had been trying to dissuade her up until Jim redirected his attention to the wounded man.

He watched the embrace, the obviously familiar exchange, then shrugged to Jim. "They must know each other...ah!" The final tug of the bandage broke open a closed blister. Arte jerked his hand away, then saw the look of pained sympathy and regret on Squirt's face, and finally pushed his hand back towards her.

"Arte, they're related." Jim said, his tone indicating that it should have been obvious to Gordon.

"How can you possibly know that."

"When a woman comes to the aid of her lover she kisses him on the lips, right.. When a daughter comes to the aid of her father."

"She kisses him on the forehead." Arte said, his other hand now free of the bandages. After a cursory inspection Squirt told him something in Ute then ran to Dark Cloud Woman, and the others that had fully encircled Bowdeen at the fire. "You don't suppose that's why Bowdeen disappeared when we first found the hunting village."

"Maybe, but why?"

"Suppose one of the women saw him, recognized him."

"They may be off the reservation but that shouldn't be any threat to Bowdeen..." Jim said, shrugging.

"Unless.." Arte stood, remembering something as he glanced at Jim's horse, then ducked around to the other side of the animal before he grunted in frustration. "I don't suppose you'd have a lantern or a candle or something..."

"Yeah..." Jim said, moving to his saddle bags and digging through them until he came up with a small, rectangular tin box. Tin on three sides anyway, with a sliding piece of glass on the fourth. The small portable lantern housed a single candle that could be lit by sliding the glass piece out completely. A thin, metal handle arched over the top. Jim was about to hand it to Arte when he asked, "You're not going in the mine, are you?"

"Yeah."

"No."

"What?"

"I said, no."

"Jim, give me the lantern."

"Arte, do you know how much trouble I'm in?"

With a long-suffering sigh Arte threw his hands in the air and shook his head, "What kind of trouble could you possibly be in?"

"I've let one of the most valuable assets of the Secret Service get practically torn apart, worn down, almost to ruination because of my neglect over the past few days."

Arte was touched. He felt his face start to flush with embarrassment, surprised at the compliment and practically wallowing in the moment of companionship and brotherly appreciation. Up until Jim said,

"I've let you practically destroy The Wanderer, I'm not going to let you lose this lantern too."

His face twisting into a snarl Arte reached out and jerked the lantern out of Jim's hands with his fingertips. "Then you're welcome to come with me." Arte said before he stomped off to the fire to light the candle.

Jim grinned at his back and followed.

* * *

After getting his hands re-bandaged, Arte insisted they take the long route on horseback. Taking advantage of whatever light remained of the day both men rode their horses at a canter until they reached the staircase, descending carefully before going to a canter again up the toll road. Reaching the mine first Arte dismounted, tied his horse's reins to the crossed boards at the entrance then waited for his partner and the lantern that Jim had insisted on carrying.

"The first time we were here I noticed the owner's name had been painted over." Arte said, reaching his fingertips up to run them over the slash of black paint.

Jim looked up to the sign, squinting as he took a step closer. More than one layer of paint had been applied making it impossible to even decipher the name via the change in texture, between painted and unpainted wood. "There's no way to read that."

"Precisely. I thought I'd check the town records once we got back. But then I found something inside. Come on." Arte said and the two stepped into the dark opening.

Already the sun was low enough that the toll road was cast mostly in shadow. The mine itself was pitch black, the single candle fighting bravely to dispel the darkness.

"You went in here alone, without a lantern..."

"We needed water, Jim."

"Did you find any?"

"...sort of."

Quietly the two men walked the passage, Arte taking in all the details that he hadn't been able to see the first time. There were boxes along the walls. Damp, molding crates that held tin cans of meat, fruit and beans, all of it probably spoiled. Further in there was a series of metal loops about the size of a silver dollar that supported a length of rotting rope, drilled into the walls .

"What do you suppose that is?" Arte asked.

"Doorbell?" Jim shrugged, reaching his hand out. The part of the rope that he touched disintegrated almost as soon as he touched it.

"You know at first I thought this mine had only be deserted about a year..." Arte said.

"About _ten_ years I'd say."

They continued on until Arte spotted the wooden plaque. Taking the lantern from his partner he approached cautiously. "There's a big hole in the ground about ten feet that way Jim, and its unstable." Arte warned before he read the plaque aloud.

"Here lies the spirit of Bill Bowdeen. Hanged here on the night of April 17th, 1865 after giving up his life for another."

Arte met Jim's gaze before they both looked up. A length of rope had been tied to the beam, looping through a small gap between the support beam and the ceiling of the mine shaft. The end that hung down had splayed over time where it had been cut.

* * *

A day later, with an extra horse borrowed from the Ute hunting village, West, Gordon and Packer returned to Mears' Town. Once Packer was back in jail, Jim and Arte returned to The Wanderer. In the time that they had been gone the engineer had seen to the repairs necessary to get the locomotive back into top shape, and had sought out help in getting the telegraph repaired. The broken windows had been boarded temporarily, the irreparably broken things removed from the car and the rest left to be repaired when they reached a bigger metropolis than Saguache. Both the engineer and the fireman were delighted to see Jim West in fair condition, and slightly alarmed at Arte's appearance until they had been reassured that he too was alright.

Arte's first goal was to find a bath, and he achieved it finally in the Mears' Town hotel with the gracious help of the lady cook. While Arte soaked, Jim started a long and tedious opening to the report that was expected in Washington. He had filled five pages, front and back, with his chicken scratches by the time Arte rejoined him.

"Our eager young friend Mr. Sumner told me that the reefer cars left yesterday, headed for Denver." Arte said, still working his wet hair into some semblance of order in the mirror. Freshly shaved and free of the gallon of dust, Jim had to admit Arte looked like a new man. He also smelled better and that had Jim inspecting the buckskins he still wore, realizing he hadn't bathed in as much time either. "Most of the unfortunate prospectors had started their journey in Denver. Their families were told they could collect the bodies in the city once they arrived." Arte turned, finally satisfied with his appearance, and watched Jim smell himself.

"It's always charming to watch Cro-magnon man evolve."

With a perfectly blank expression on his face Jim looked up and said, "Huh?"

Arte smiled, returning the blank look with an innocent one then pointed in the direction of the hotel. "She'll have a fresh bath for you in a few minutes, Jim."

Distracted once more by the work before him Jim nodded his head before jotting down another sentence.

"Any messages?" Arte asked, picking up the first page of Jim's report.

"Two from Washington, one from Denver. Arte, who's WT?"

Arte grinned but said nothing grabbing up the pad of paper sitting on the corner of the desk beside the new telegraph machine, before moving to the settee to read the messages.

"All the bodies were identified?" Jim asked, still writing.

Arte nodded. "Including and especially George Noon."

The first message was from Tennyson, asking in the most polite and proper of terms after the health of both men, and the condition of The Wanderer. Clearly the incident at the Denver Depot had made the news in some form or other. The invitation for Jim and Arte to visit was still open.

The messages from Washington began as an irate demand for an update. Arte assumed this was followed by a response from the engineer indicating why they had been silent for so long. The second message asked for a report whenever possible on the status of Agents Gordon and West. "It's always touching when Washington worries." Arte muttered then looked up to find his partner slouched in his chair, staring at the report. "What is it?"

Jim pursed his lips, then sat up, leaning his elbows on the desk. "Jerome Chaffee is a big man in Denver. He's about to be in-laws with President Grant."

Arte nodded at each piece of information, watching as Jim leaned in.

"How far do you think we're going to get when we start accusing him of murder?"

Arte had been thinking that same thing in the back of his mind for some time. Corruption was a terrible beast that ate away at the confidence of a man, creating paranoia and fear. The further up the chain the corruption went the fewer the moves that remained before the corrupting influence began to look like the good guy, and the one upsetting the boat was the bad guy.

"Until we can get a coherent confession out of Packer we can't accuse anyone of anything.." Arte said, thinking back to his interactions with the man. "He's not crazy Jim. There's...something else wrong with his mind. He was like a man-child. Very capable of doing simple tasks."

"Like pulling a man out of a sink hole?"

"He saved my life. But he is easily corruptible. He'll mimic anything. Some things he remembers better than others." Arte stopped to think, his bandaged hands poised in the air. "I told him he was under arrest and pulled my gun. He recognized the threat that it posed and did what I told him, like any sane man would. He made no attempt to escape. When I tied him up he fought me, until I...I don't know why, but I told him that I didn't have a choice, that it was for his own good, like you would a child being punished."

"He let you tie him up?"

"Without a struggle. He seemed very concerned for Bowdeen..." Or whatever his name was. "Then told me he was tired, and he lay down and took a nap."

"But he ate people.." Jim said.

"The man has terrible breath and poor dental hygiene but I don't think it is the result of eating human flesh. I'd like to speak to Doctor Young about the condition of the bodies, but all we _know_ is that Packer was discovered with bits of human flesh in his possession. That much could have been planted."

Jim made a noise of disgust and stood shaking his head. He disappeared behind the door that led to their private living quarters and Arte waited knowing there'd be more to come. Finally he heard Jim's voice filtering into the parlor. "The whole thing seems like a wild, elaborate scheme. Why go to so much trouble to kill Chaffee's nephew? And why send us into the mess?"

"Power is maddening and addictive Jim. Men do insane things when something they love is being taken away from them. And I'm certain neither Chaffee nor Sanderson expected anyone to second guess Packer's story."

"Maybe.." Jim said, walking back into the parlor with his hands full of fresh clothes and a towel.

"Are you gonna keep those buckskins?" Arte asked.

Jim paused at the door and looked down at the greasy clothes he still wore. "Do you think I should?"

Arte shrugged, "Some women like the primitive man look..."

"Funny, Arte. Real funny." Jim said, not looking as amused as Arte was.

"Enjoy!" Arte called as his partner left. In the quiet solitude of the car he looked over what Jim had already written, then eyed the telegraph. After a few moments of thought he switched it to 'send' and tapped out a greeting. Four minutes later he got a response. Washington, delighted to hear from him.

Arte tapped out, "Have retrieved escaped prisoner, and West. Have other developments. Secrecy required. Request rendezvous in one week, Denver."

Arte switched the key to receive and waited until the set started to rattle again, "Prisoner to be held under maximum security, then transferred to Denver. Will send representative to address of your choosing in one week."

After a moment Arte smiled then tapped in an address, confirmed more specific arrangements then signed off.

His next stop was at the home of Dr. Young.


	12. Chapter 12

"What'd the doctor have to say?"

"The bodies were severely damaged. They'd been out in the elements for months. What time and weather hadn't done to them, coyotes and other scavengers had. He said there was some evidence of knife scoring on the bones, as if someone had carved out flesh but, no teeth marks. None that were human anyway."

"How did they die?"

"One of them of a cracked skull, the others of gun shot wounds."

"George Noon?"

Arte nodded. "Shot in the back. His death would have been instantaneous."

"How was the doctor able to identify the bodies?" Jim asked.

"Through descriptions from family members primarily, height, weight, hair color. One of the prospectors had lost a finger in a previous mining accident, another had broken a leg. Dr. Young is a student of anthropological medicine; what he had to say about the study of bones was fascinating." Arte reached out for his cup of coffee, pulling the steaming liquid to his lips and savoring it. He hadn't had a decent cup in almost a week.

"So they weren't eaten?" Jim asked, before forking a thick piece of steak into his mouth. Cooked to perfection.

"What happened to the meat after it was removed from the body is anyone's guess, but there was nothing on the bodies themselves to corroborate the allegation of cannibalism. It's a fair assumption to have made, admittedly, especially after the infamous Donner party incident, but the only person Alfred Packer has attempted to take a bite out of is you."

Jim made a face at his smiling partner then took a sip of wine.

"The uh...Doctor's wives were there as well, terribly concerned after they didn't hear from you again." Arte said.

"Oh?" Jim asked smiling. Arte rolled his eyes and Jim chuckled before changing the subject. "Did you contact Washington?"

"Yes. They'll be a representative meeting us in Denver, next week. I assumed we would want stick around until the Sheriff recovers."

Jim nodded, adding, "If the Sheriff recovers..."

"_You _have doubts?" Arte asked, smiling.

Jim smirked. "Good point."

A second later there was a knock at the door of the varnish car. Jim and Arte shared a look of surprise before Arte stood from the dinner table, crossing the car and opening the door. "Colonel Richmond!"

"Gentlemen." A trim man of medium height, in his forties and dressed in a blue uniform, stepped into the car removing his hat. Gordon shook the man's hand, surprised but pleased, then invited him into the parlor. West stood and took the man's hand as well. "Jim, how's the arm?"

"Fine, sir. Would you care for some coffee?"

"That would be fine, thank you." Richmond smiled a little as he looked around the normally immaculate and well-appointed car now decidedly less so. "Artemus, when Washington contacted me I was under the impression that there'd be nothing more than a few dents in the engine."

Arte gave their superior and friend an apologetic look as he poured the steaming black liquid into porcelain. He set the Colonel's cup and saucer in front of the seat he had just occupied, removing his cup to an empty part of the table before he pulled a stool from his work bench and sat. "There _are_ only a few dents in the locomotive. But it was quite a firestorm, Colonel."

"Yes.." Richmond finally sat, looking over what remained of the agent's meal before he took a sip of the coffee. "That's part of why I'm here. I know that you had made plans to meet with a representative in one week but Washington wanted the answers to some questions sooner. They understand your request for secrecy and I was ordered here."

"Colonel, we sent that message _today_..." Jim said.

Gordon and West were still staring at him surprised and confused. The Colonel gave them an equally lost look before he realized where the confusion lay. "I've been at the Los Pinos Indian Agency for the past four days, gentlemen. Now, I understand that you have Packer in custody. That the bodies of his victims were found and then shipped to Denver after they were identified here by a local physician, a Doctor..."

Both men said, "Young." at the same time, giving the Colonel pause but only briefly.

"There's a great deal more to it than that..." Arte said, then launched into a retelling of the case.

For the next hour he and Jim explained everything they knew to the Colonel, watching the man closely for reactions but getting very little. They'd emptied the coffee pot, cleared the dishes, and started a second pot by the time they'd finished. As Arte poured more of the brew into each cup, he and Jim watched the Colonel who had fallen silently into thought.

"First of all the man you've described, this Carlos Sanderson. He may be James Miller. They call him "Killer Miller". He's a wanted hired assassin who has been in the business of murder since he was very young. He was accused of killing a man at the age of 8, but was released on a technicality after the trial. They've tried to pin something on him ever since. He's the type that likes to play games, pose as other people. I wouldn't be surprised if he had stayed around Saguache to wait for Packer and make sure he kept the story straight."

Jim and Arte exchanged surprised glances before Arte asked, "Wait, you mean you believe us?"

"Should I not?" Richmond asked, looking between the two Secret Servicemen before he asked, "Where is Sanderson's body now?"

"Preserved, temporarily, in a mine." Arte said.

Jim nodded, adding. "Arte was hoping we could place it in with the other bodies on the reefers but they were gone by the time we returned."

"I can arrange to have another refrigerated car sent down tomorrow afternoon." Richmond said.

Suddenly Arte slapped a hand over the breast pocket of his jacket, then slapped at his pants before he stood, turning in a full circle, his eyes unfocused. "I completely forgot. Excuse me, Colonel. Jim." And Arte left the parlor, going through the rest of the varnish car to the equine car.

"We were hoping, Colonel, that in all of this, the Ute hunting village would not receive any repercussions for leaving the reservation." Jim said, filling the lull left by Arte's rapid departure.

"I'm certain we can work around their presence in the official report, Jim. I am curious to know who this man Bowdeen really is. Denver records claim that the Sheriff in Saguache is a man named Houpt. He was assigned the day Otto Mears' founded the town. I recall seeing the name Bowdeen associated with Mears but, not as a lawman."

Arte returned a minute later carrying a hat by the brim. Contained in the crown were a handful of items, the articles he had removed from Sanderson's body. "These were found on Sanderson...Miller." Arte put the hat down in front of Richmond, pulling the small book of letters and numbers out, dumping the cash and the bullets carefully on the table before searching the hat. "That book there, I thought, might have been an accounts of sorts. Numbers, initials. None of it made sense to me but..." With a sigh Arte dropped the hat back to the table and looked at Jim.

"There was a ring, a men's wedding band. It's gone now."

"Jim Miller _was_ married." Richmond said, focused on the cryptic jottings in the book.

"My apologies, Colonel, it must have fallen out of my saddle bags."

"I would say this was more valuable." Richmond said lifting the book, before he flipped through the cash. He then reached a hand out for the jacketed bullets and asked. "What about the rifle?" The unique nature of the gun that Sanderson/Miller used, combined with the equally as unique bullets that he carried on his person were enough evidence to connect Sanderson with the rifle, and the rifle with the weapon used to kill the prospectors.

"Locked in the jail, Colonel." Jim said.

They were silent for a moment before Arte cleared his throat. "Sir...about-"

"Chaffee, yes, I know." Richmond said, sighing into the slight tension in the room. "This book may come to satisfy _my_ curiosity, and your logic is sound concerning the case, but the fact of the matter is, we may never know who precisely hired Miller to kill George 'California' Noon."

"What about the attack on The Wanderer?"

"There are many criminal elements developing in Colorado Territory. The Italian and Irish influences on the east coast, and the Chinese influences on the west are making their way inland. Any one of those organizations may have attached themselves to Chaffee, or his interests, and taken it upon themselves to dissuade you." Richmond paused and watched the men.

Both looked like they had been through hell without benefit of a hand basket, and crawled their way back out. The physical damage done to the government property they called home was extensive, and the damage to their persons even more so. He understood the frustration of a case so boxed in by politics that there could be no satisfying resolution, however...

"Officially this case is resolved. Chaffee was in no way involved. Jim Miller was accused of murdering the five prospectors, specifically George Noon, and in response attacked two Federal agents and was killed. Alfred Packer confessed to being a participant."

Arte sat forward starting to protest, Jim's quiet disagreement providing an undertone. Both men were cut off when Richmond raised a hand. "We won't be able to prosecute Alfred Packer because he's escaped..."

"Again?" Arte asked finally.

Richmond smiled and shook his head, watching as Jim began to smirk, then looked to Arte.

"Ah I see..." Arte said nodding.

"The reality of corruption in our government is something that only a very few in Washington have begun to accept. The Secret Service has taken it upon itself to provide a haven for witnesses in particular, who might become victims of that corruption. We're calling it the Witness Security Program. We've been looking for someone to try it out on.

We'll give Packer a new identity, and a place to live. Somewhere completely different from where he lived before. As long as he's alive to testify there is a chance for prosecuting Chaffee, or any others responsible, in the future, when it is likely to do some good. For the time being, only one person, his contact, will know where he is. That should protect him from anyone looking to keep him silent, and allow us to keep an eye on him if we need him in the future."

"And this contact..." Arte began, churning his hand in the air.

Richmond smiled. "Don't all volunteer at once." He rose to his feet, Jim and Arte following suit. "You gentlemen, and I, will be the only ones to know the truth. I'll arrange to take Packer in a few days, if you two can...extricate him quietly."

Arte and Jim nodded, though Arte's schemes were rarely described as quiet.

"Good. In that case, is there anything else, gentlemen?" Richmond asked, taking his hat from the table.

"One...one thing, Colonel." Arte said, leaning forward. "Who sent the telegraph?"

"Telegraph?"

"The one telling us that we were looking for J.B. Chaffee's son." Jim clarified.

"Ah..." The Colonel nodded and smiled. "I did, gentlemen. I knew you'd figure it all out. Good day."

* * *

The following morning, while Arte took on the arduous task of informing Bowdeen's deputies of his whereabouts as well as the events transpiring over the last few days, Jim took two horses up the toll road, heading for the mine to retrieve Sanderson/Miller's body. He visited the small collection of Ute women still on the plateau and found Bowdeen unconscious but still alive. It didn't take long for Dark Cloud Woman to shoo him away and he left, surprised not to have seen the 6-year-old child he had named Squirt among them.

He gathered the killer's body, tied it to the saddle of the spare horse, and returned down the mountain just after noon.

By 3:30pm the Mallet engine with a single reefer car in tow pulled up to the Mears' Town station. Jim and Arte worked together, with kerchief's over their faces, to situate Sanderson's pungent corpus safely inside. Transferring him out of the blanket Arte caught a flash of something on the dead man as the right hand of the corpse slipped, swinging to the side of the table they were strapping him to. Arte carefully grabbed the appendage, returning it to the dead man's side before he recognized the ring.

The corpse's fingers were so swollen in death that the ring would only fit on the first knuckle of the pinky finger.

"Jim..." Arte spoke, muffled through the kerchief, before he lifted the hand. "This ring was the in the lining of Sanderson's hat when I found it."

West leaned over the body to look at the piece of jewelry. "How did it get _there_?"

Neither man had an answer. After securing the deceased and tightly closing up the reefer, both men went to speak with the engineer and his crew, giving them their instructions for delivery before the Secret Service Agents returned to The Wanderer.

A day later the Mallet engine pulled out of the station destined for Denver.

* * *

The rest of the week passed with a trudging sort of boredom. The plan to help Packer 'escape' from jail had been set and ready fairly early on. All that remained was to wait for the telegraph message from Colonel Richmond confirming a time and place of meeting.

To remove any future suspicion of their involvement West and Gordon had planned to leave town with The Wanderer the day before the jail break, and return in disguise on horseback the following evening.

In the interim Jim had made another trip into the mountains to check on Bowdeen and the medicine woman's family. He was surprised to find them no longer on the plateau above the All Mine. When he returned to the lake in the valley, the original site of the hunting camp, the clearing that had once held a village full of women and children was also nearly empty. Only one structure remained, a simple lean-to.

As Jim watched from the grassy overlook Blue Water Woman, the teenaged granddaughter of Dark Cloud, left the lean-to carrying a heavy canvas bucket. She filled the container at the edge of the lake then returned to the lean-to, freezing at the opening and finally jerking her head up to where Jim sat his horse.

For a few minutes Jim and Blue Water stared at each other before the young girl lifted a hand in greeting and welcome and Jim walked his horse down into the simple camp.

As he approached the lean-to Jim heard a quiet conversation in Ute inside the structure, before Blue Water Woman peered out at him and beckoned him closer. Jim sat cross-legged at the entrance and peered in at a conscious Bill Bowdeen. The thin man still looked pale, but he was smiling and holding out a hand to West. Jim shook, pleased at the strength in the man's grip.

"Mr. West! Figured you boys'd be gone by now."

Jim opened his mouth to respond, then dropped his head, looking to his hands for a moment. "We still had some things to wrap up." He said finally, offering a smile to Bowdeen.

The grizzled man watched the younger agent, reading the truth on his face, and nodded. "I figured leavin' Mr. Gordon like I did without an explanation would raise some questions. But there just wasn't time to come up with answers then. I knew Packer was in a heap o' trouble, and I had to get him outta that jail.."

"You helped him escape?" Jim asked.

"Oh, it wasn't an escape, son. Just a leisurely stroll outta town one mornin'. My deputies are good, when they're awake." Bowdeen smiled at him weakly, then coughed deep in his throat. A controlled action that still pained the man. Jim waited until Bowdeen's hand tapped against the ground near the younger man's foot. "You got questions though...get on to askin'."

"Artemus did a little exploring after we found you on the plateau. Went into the All Mine and found the plaque." Jim watched as Bowdeen's eyes closed, the man's chin nodding quietly.

"You, and your partner, are good men. I figured that about ya the first day your train rolled in. I thought , maybe that Gordon was a bit of a dandy but, you both proved out to be true blue. Now...this here is a secret I been keepin' for almost 9 years. It's kept me alive til now...I spect it'll keep me alive after." The man took a cautious breath, his eyes straying to the teenager sitting just outside the lean-to. "My name is Otto Mears."

A part of Jim was shocked, and another part had expected it all along. The first day they met the man claiming to be Bowdeen, they had been given a tour of the town. Every aspect of what existed had been presented to them by the "Sheriff" with a sort of proprietary pride. Bowdeen had never claimed to have been in the town when it was built and yet he spoke of it with the fondness of a founder, and the depth of a man with vision still for the future. Bowdeen's attitude didn't seem to fit the man. Now, it all made sense.

Otto Mears smiled as he watched the younger man putting the pieces together, delighted at the quick mind. "Bill Bowdeen was my brother-in-law. His wife, my dear sister, had died before we come to this part of the world and nobody knowed the relation. It didn't much matter. We both had it in mind to disappear from the world and make ourselves a place.

When we founded the town Bowdeen cared mostly about the mines. Them toll roads was his idea once he got the first strike. I cared about buildin' a community. About seein' to it that the boom town that would spring up, stayed populated. I put my money into the grist mill, supplies, and the hotel. Bill put his into minin' equipment and shoring timbers.

Prospectors and fortune seekers started to come to Saguache. They saw plenty of me, saw my name on all the buildin's and figured out right quick what I was about. But they never really saw Bill. They didn't know he was the one that built the toll roads and them roads rankled 'em right pure. They didn't figure we had the right to bottle up the roads that way. Never mindin' that we cut them roads ourselves..."

The more Mears spoke the more agitated he became and after a few minutes he was forced to stop, to lay back and breathe. Jim waited, his eyes straying, watching Blue Water Woman as she worked quietly at the fire scraping a hide that he hadn't noticed before.

"Bill never did pay no mind. He spent all his time out here. He found the Ute tribe, fell in love with a woman." Jim felt his gaze being drawn back to Blue Water Woman and Mears' nodded. "That's his daughter there. My niece. Bill was always careful to keep his woman and his family well hid. He knowed most men don't take to native wives and families, don't understand 'em rightly. One day some of the men found out. Don't remember how. But they hunted his wife down and beat her. Beat her so bad she bled out. Grace o' God alone kept Blue Water safe."

Mears fell silent again and Jim watched as the teenager quietly stood and went to one of the cold fire pits left in the wake of the hunting village. She collected several pieces of charred wood and returned to the hide, making dark black symbols with the charcoal.

"Bill hunted 'em down. Killed the men that killed his woman. But them dead men had friends and brothers and they got it in mind that it was me done the killin'. I was nearly gunned down twice before I figured what was goin' on. I lit outta town right quick, hid out with the Ute, and looked after Blue Water. They wouldn't let up though.

One day they found me, chased me into that damned mine. Dark Cloud, that medicine woman, come for Bill and Bill come for me. The onliest way he could get them killers off my back was to confess to the killin' he done. He saved my life; shouted out that he'd done the crime, and then was lynched right there without trial."

"Bill Bowdeen wasn't a healthy name to hang on to, why keep it?" Jim asked.

"I knowed Saguache needed a lawman. The men that done the killin' kinda spooked themselves outta town so there wasn't nobody to brag about Bill bein' dead. The name Otto Mears was even less popular, true to tell. I'd worked too hard to bring Saguache, Mear's Town into being...I stuck with the Ute tribe, learnin' from the braves, until they moved on. Then went back, tol' everybody I was Bill Bowdeen, the new law in town. That I'd been visitin' with Old Man Mears and he'd done hired me. Worked. Nobody paid no nevermind as to where I come from. Been Sheriff Bowdeen ever since."

"And all you had to do to keep your secret was close off the All Mine."

"I hid away the ownership papers too. But Bill was my brother, saved my life. He was all that I had in the way of family. Was a fool thing puttin' up that marker but, til you and Mr. Gordon come along, nobody cared enough to find it."

Jim's feet were starting to fall asleep, he could feel the uncomfortable numbness creeping up, and along with it, was becoming aware of Blue Water Woman's quiet impatience, a trait that she had no doubt picked up from her grandmother.

"Sheriff Bowdeen..." Jim said finally, offering the man his hand. "I don't think you, or the town of Saguache, have anything more to worry about."

Otto Mears was slow to respond, but finally smiled, taking Jim's hand and clasping his own over top it.

"On one condition.." Jim said. The smile dimmed only a little and Bowdeen nodded, releasing Jim's hand.

"Name it."

"That little girl. The one that was with Dark Cloud Woman a week ago. Who was she?"

Bowdeen's eyes dimmed a little, a dark look crossing his features. "That child is an outsider, Jim. She's an orphan. Wainanika."

In a halting tone Bowdeen called to his niece, then asked a question in Ute. Blue Water Woman answered, mostly with hand signals and very few words, before she returned to her work. Jim realized that the hide, and the distance she kept, was out of respect for the conference going on between the two men.

Something, he remembered, that Squirt had not done when he and Arte had been speaking.

"A man from another tribe came to the hunting camp and took her." Bowdeen said, shrugging slightly. "That's all she knows."

Jim didn't like it. He had a sick feeling in his gut of a sudden that he had no right to feel.

"Thank you." He said, then stood, tottering on numb feet for a second. He was turning to go to his horse, brushing sand off the back of his pants when he remembered.

"Oh, uh, Bowdeen. Your deputies may be a little flustered by the time you get back but, Mr. Gordon and I will be taking Mr. Packer into the custody of the Secret Service."

Bowdeen was silent for a few minutes before he lifted his hand a few inches off the palate on which he lay, and waved Jim off. "Man's more trouble than he's worth. You're welcome to him."


	13. Epilogue

Disguised as a very old priest Artemus Gordon was admitted into the Mears' Town jail by Wyatt Sumner and another deputy just after sunset, a day after he and Jim West supposedly left town aboard The Wanderer.

Arte was pleased at how well he was received. Faking a wave of dizziness, shortly after he entered, Arte was quickly given a chair and Wyatt sat opposite him with a handful of papers fanning him with cool air, but not recognizing him as a Secret Service Agent. If it weren't for the fact that the fanning was worrying at the corner of his sideburns Arte would have relished the moment. But, he declared he needed to see to the spiritual well-being of the prisoners.

The lawmen protested, as he expected they would, but with his silver tongue and agile mind Arte had them finally agreeing that it would be alright. They were so convinced of Arte's holy duties that he found himself dissuading Sumner from forming a temporary confessional screen out of the door separating the cells from the front room. It had apparently been years for the boy and his sins were weighing heavily on him.

Arte finally convinced him that another time would be more appropriate, but offered to share the blessing of a wee nip with the two gentlemen. He poured each a doctored sample of scotch from a flask that was meant to have carried holy water, waited for them to fall unconscious, then put on a similar act for the men guarding the cells.

Alfred Packer, the only sober prisoner in the cells, seemed delighted to see the priest, up until the priest spoke with Arte's voice. He was disappointed but not belligerent, to Arte's chagrin. The man possessed the most unfortunate of oral maladies. Arte would have preferred he were unconscious instead of awake and talkative.

Gordon and Packer left the quiet jail with very little pomp and Arte glowed inwardly at yet another job cleverly well done.

With Jim, wearing a monk's robe, waiting just outside of town with a wagon and a team of horses, Arte and Packer were clean away from the jail long before any of the guards regained consciousness. They met Colonel Richmond ten miles east of Saguache at the siding that held the quietly chuffing Wanderer. With Sanderson/Miller's modified rifle across his knees and Packer comfortably bound in the back of the wagon, Richmond left for parts unknown promising to contact the agents in person once the so-called Cannibal of Colorado had been settled.

Their last instructions were to report to Denver the following day for a final debriefing before they were allotted seven days of R and R.

After he had been promised that no boats were involved what-so-ever, Jim finally agreed to plan to join Arte on their first day of vacation for a special visit.

"What about the guards in the jail, Arte?" Jim asked as they walked through the cool night together, ambling towards the siding.

"Why, they'll be fine, my son." Arte said, slapping Jim on the shoulder, his wavering old man voice mixing with a thick Irish accent. "There's nothin' in the world that a wee nip won't cure."

"Or cause." Jim chuckled.

Arte shrugged as if to say, 'it happens.' They walked together toward the train, Arte slowly peeling parts of his makeup off as they went.

The night around them was cool and clear. Stars were in abundance above, the unpopulated land devoid of the noises of humanity. They were twenty feet from The Wanderer when Jim noticed a shadow darting across the glowing windows of the varnish car.

"Arte..." Jim said quietly, putting his hand out, gently halting his partner in his tracks. "I think we have a visitor."

Arte stopped, midway through peeling off his mustache and looked at his partner, following the nod he was given and catching the flicker of a shadow in the windows. As if someone had been trying to peer out them. He heard Jim's sleeve gun snap into place and dug into his priestly robes trying to find the entry to the pocket in which he had hidden his own sidearm. Before he could get to it Jim was already loping toward one end of the car, staying low out of the light from the windows.

"Jim...!" Arte tried to whisper, but his partner either didn't hear him, or was ignoring him. Still desperately digging through his robes Arte went to the opposite end of the car and peered through the small slit between the curtains of the door, seeing nothing out of place. He had finally managed to find the pocket and was struggling to drag the gun out into the open when Jim barged into the car.

Cursing his partner's wrecklessness Arte burst through his own door, finally ripping the gun out of his pocket. The only person in the room to point it at, however, was Jim.

"I could swear that I had seen something..." Arte said.

Jim nodded, then moved to the left of the door until he could see behind the settee. There was nothing there.

Arte looked under his work bench, and under the desk that held the telegraph, and found no one.

It was, in the end, Henrietta that discovered their visitor. The sound of the bird cooing drew both agents' attention to the door that opened into the supply room. They opened the door together, guns pointed, to discover a small, cowering child hiding in the shadows.

"Squirt!" Jim cried, recognizing the child first. The sound of Jim's loud voice seemed to frighten her, and she cowered deeper, even as Jim walked into the room, lifting her in his arms.

She struggled, muffled screams and kicks assaulting them, until Jim brought her into the light of the varnish car and she finally got a good look at him. When she calmed Jim said, "She's freezing cold." She was also covered in dirt, and something maliciously rust colored from head to toe.

At first Squirt refused to let go of Jim, her eyes roving around the car as West tried to put her on the settee, then fixating with terror on Arte, up until the older man realized that he still had on the wig and most of his makeup. Instead of whipping it off in front of the child, essentially scalping himself before her very eyes, he disappeared into the wash room to remove the rest of his disguise. "Has she got a fever, Jim?" Arte asked, turning on the cold and hot water taps in the sink. The heat for the hot water came directly from the steam lines, often making it too hot to touch at first. Arte tempered the water with one hand, piling various parts of his disguise near the sink with the other.

"No, Arte. She's just cold."

Looking more like himself, with a basin of steaming water, some soap and a rag, Arte returned to the parlor. Squirt's eyes followed the steaming ceramic bowl from where she sat on the end of the settee, and Arte put it down where she could see into it, putting his own fingers in the water, then touching them to her arm. Squirt's eyes widened just a little before she pushed both of her hands into the bowl, spreading her fingers in the luxurious warmth, already leaving some of the dirt behind. As soon as she shifted both men were accosted with the smell of manure, unwashed buckskins...and dried blood.

"That's pretty smart, Arte." Jim said quietly, both men struggling not to recoil from the smells as Arte dipped a corner of the cloth in the water, rubbed it on the soap, then cleaned off a little bit of the age makeup and cement still on his cheeks. He showed the end result to Squirt. After a few minutes she reluctantly pulled her hands from the water and took the cloth. She dipped it in the water, rubbed it on the soap, then cleaned a little more of Arte's makeup off, concentrating on the task with careful, gentle strokes.

"You got it, Squirt. Now you." Arte said softly, taking the cloth and rubbing a corner against a slash of mud on the child's arm. He had her arms clean of dirt and was carefully cleaning around the scrapes on her elbows before she gave her first, subdued protest. In response to the injured phrase in Ute, Arte turned his palm over and showed Squirt his hands, reminding her of the doctoring he had let her do on the rope burns over a week ago.

She narrowed her eyes at Arte, her lips pulled tight together, but let him finish cleaning the scratches. He had moved down to her legs before Jim said, "Arte...how did you know to do all that?"

Arte shrugged, looking up to Squirt's face. She was concentrating fully on every move Arte's hands made. "I was thinking about Packer. I had the same sort of communication problem with him, but once I'd made it clear that what I was doing was for his own good, he went along with it. Everything he'd done before that I think...was just a reaction to fear."

Jim watched the little girl, seeing something behind her eyes that hadn't been there before. She seemed even wiser than she had been, and not in a good way. "Not that we think Squirt's afraid.." Jim said, the statement came out sounding more ironic than he had intended.

"Oh no, she's fearless." Arte responded, his voice quiet, sounding just as unconvinced as Jim.

There were scratches all over her limbs, probably from running through brambles or tumbling down rocky inclines. There were bruises too high on her arms and on her ankles, bruises about the size of a man's hands. Arte knew there would be more. But that they would be hidden under the tunic. He was terrified of what he would find there.

He worked slowly down Squirt's skinny legs, finally getting to her feet. He was lifting her right foot to inspect its base when all other thoughts left him in a breathless and terrifying moment. The bottoms of Squirt's feet were a mass of welts, bruises and small cuts. Some of the damage could have been caused by running barefoot over rough terrain. But not all of it.

"Jim..." Arte whispered, feeling his heart sink, and his anger rise. "The bottoms of her feet have been whipped."

Jim moved, kneeling next to Arte. He gently lifted Squirt's other foot, finding similar damage, but not as bad. West struggled not to react visibly and asked his partner, "What do you need?"

Arte thought about it, looking up to the six-year-old orphan's face. Quiet tears had been rolling down her cheeks for the past minute or so. The child looked tiny, her arms tucked against her sides, her fingers playing with a hole at the hem of her tunic.

"You may need to hold her Jim." He said finally, meeting his partner's disturbed gaze.

Jim nodded and stood. He started speaking soothingly to Squirt as he reached out to gently scoop the child into his arms. To his surprise she didn't protest, remaining essentially limp. He sat on the settee and kept Squirt in his lap. Immediately she leaned back against his chest, her arms wrapped around her middle.

They sat in silence, both men raging inwardly at the pain that had been intentionally inflicted on the little girl as Arte gently cleaned her feet. He was thorough, knowing the pain that an infection would cause would be greater than any pain he caused her in that moment. Each flinch was brief, the little girl focused on Arte, but totally relaxed against Jim.

By the time Arte finished, Squirt's tears had dried on her cheeks, her brown eyes nearly closed behind heavy lids. Arte smiled softly and reached out his hand, resting it on her wrist. Her free hand immediately moved to cover Arte's and her eyes closed. In minutes she was asleep, breathing evenly.

Arte stayed still for a moment, fighting the tight knot in his throat, reminding himself of the reality of their lives, their jobs, and the danger still posed to the little girl. "We'll need to get her to Denver, Jim, to a real doctor."

Jim made no response, lifting a hand to lay it gently against the girl's head, relieved to feel no fever radiating.

Together the two men carefully laid her down on the settee, covering her with several blankets, and placing one under her head for a pillow. While they worked Jim quietly explained what he had learned about the girl from Bowdeen.

"How could she have gotten here?" Arte whispered, moving to the lamps to turn them down to the merest whisper of light.

Standing at the door of the car, preparing to lean out and give the all clear to the engineer Jim shook his head. He could imagine a hundred different scenarios that brought her to the varnish car. He could imagine a hundred more that might have ended with her still in the clutches of the man that had done this to her.

While Jim signaled the engineer Arte moved a chair to the door leading to the rest of the varnish car, taking paper and pencil with him to finish some work. After closing the outer door Jim put the other chair in front of it, putting his feet up.

The engine began to chuff louder, the wheels slipping then catching, jerking the cars in succession until they were moving.

Both men watched the settee closely, making certain its occupant remained asleep and comfortable until The Wanderer was moving at a fair clip.

"Good night, Arte." Jim said finally, letting his eyes close, but knowing he wouldn't get any rest.

Already writing Arte said, "Good night, Jim."

Neither man moved from his protective position until the morning.

* * *

_**Author's Note: **_

_Again a giant thank you to all the readers. _

_If you're feeling unsatisfied, fear not. This plot will be continued in my next story, so stay tuned. _

_As some of my readers have discovered a lot of my characters have historical roots. I encourage you to look them up when you get the chance and learn a little something about the 'real world' that our heroes inhabited. _

_While Alfred Packer was really accused of killing and cannibalizing five men, the crime was never actually proven. The ambiguity in the historical references that I found allowed me some leeway and I happily introduced some other killers to take the blame. _

_Alfred Packer did indeed escape from the jail in Saguache, Colorado, and was discovered many years later living in a distant town under an alias. _

_J. B. Chaffee was a founder, bank owner, and the first Senator for Colorado when it achieved statehood. His daughter was engaged to, and married, Ulysses S. Grant Jr. _

_Any fallacies, embellishments, or outright lies were for the purpose of the narrative. I of course own nothing. _

_Thank you and happy writing!_


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